Mr Gold Goes to Washington
by Finch85
Summary: Eli is in D.C. and he decides to mix a little pleasure with business.
1. Coffee

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.**  
><strong>

**~ COFFEE ~**

He stands across from a large office building – her building. He observes it from a safe distance, hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, the noises of the city swirling around him. He looks like a man keeping some sort of strange vigil. The fingers of his right hand are curled into a ball, and in their soft grasp hides one of his most valuable possessions: a small slip of crumpled paper. Kalinda's handwriting has faded somewhat from the frequent folding-and-unfolding routine of his chronic indecisiveness but it's still legible.

He had asked her to find an address and she came back with two. "Just in case," she told him. There was a strange edge in her voice and a blank expression on her face. "In case what?" he asked, brows knitted together, as hungry brown eyes drank in the blue strings of words and numbers. But when he glanced up for the answer, he found himself alone in his office.

He is at the first address, the one he asked for – a seemingly dull block of glass and steel in the busy heart of the capital. He itches to go inside. He could easily come up with several perfectly believable excuses to be in that office. Once inside, it would be only a matter of time before he bumped into the real reason. A faint smile quirks his lips at the thought but Reason is quick to tame it back into a straight line. _Get a grip._ He checks his watch. It's lunchtime. She is bound to walk through that door any second now anyway. He stays put but his mind races on.

Being here is probably courting disaster, and part of him knows he should leave but that's not the part in control now. It hasn't been for a while. What if she won't be alone? _She probably won't._ Conflicting thoughts and painful images flash through his mind but an uncertain defiance stemming from some ridiculous, desperate need keeps him glued to this spot.

He really does hate himself sometimes.

He continues scanning the sea of people flowing in and out of the building, both hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of one face in particular. Soon a loud thunder snaps him out of his silent observance. He glances up at the darkening sky with a shadow of a wry smile. The electricity of an approaching storm spikes the air and the wind picks up, carrying dried leaves and the smell of rain. He takes a deep breath and his vision drifts back on the entrance. Still no sign of her.

Suddenly a disturbing thought crosses his mind. _You are stalking her. _He takes a breath, wrestling with himself, then exhales loudly. No. He just wants to see her, make sure she's okay. Maybe have a cup of coffee. That's all. He came to D.C. to charm a potential campaign donor and he has some time to kill before the meeting. What's wrong with using it to check up on a friend he hasn't seen in a while? _Nothing... if she were a friend._ His jaw clenches and he pushes that last thought away.

The first drops of rain force him to look around for a suitable shelter – anything but the building he's been so keenly observing for the last 30 minutes or so. Soon his gaze locks on a smallish Italian coffee house nearby. After a few more seconds and yet another loud thunder, his legs finally obey. They move off the pavement and carry him swiftly across the street into the cosy embrace of mingled conversations and the smell of freshly made coffee.

It doesn't take much time before he resumes his observer status but now he has a comfortable seat with a great view of the place and a cup of hot coffee in an actual cup. His briefcase and neatly folded overcoat are resting on a chair by his side like two trusty companions, and his tie hangs a bit more loosely around his neck. He's relaxed. He takes a sip, savoring the taste, as his eyes sweep the surroundings. It's busy but not too noisy. Rather small but not suffocating. Friendly, yet elegant. It uses every square inch of available space. Practical. Neat. Efficient. He loves it.

The door opens and closes almost every 10 seconds now. People are fleeing inside from the heavy rain. A couple enters and the young man shakes water from his hair. The young woman holds her hand up to shield herself and laughs – a sound vaguely familiar but not yet recognized by the man enjoying his coffee merely 10 feet away from them.

He stares into the sugary blackness of his cup, then glances up and the sweet taste in his mouth is instantly replaced by a bitter realization: It's her and she isn't alone. He can't look away. He sits – statue-like and helpless –, trying to digest the painful sight as the pair walks away in the opposite direction to find a place to sit. She didn't notice him. He feels relieved, then slightly disappointed. He gets fidgety and shifts on the chair, calculating. Should he get up and say hello? He doesn't. He can't do it. He can't even try to pretend to be an approving part of this. He would probably choke on the lies the way he almost did when he first met her.

He tears his gaze away from them and stares out the window to watch the rainy city pass by. People and cars move up and down the street outside – completely unseen. A slight frown lingers on his face and thoughts crash in his head. He's trying not to be so affected by all this – "trying" being the operative word –, but he feels tense, weird, and borderline devastated. It's ridiculous but he just can't seem to shake it. It must be the exhaustion getting to him. Yes, that's it. Satisfied with his diagnosis, he looks over at the couple one more time and it feels like a particularly stinging slap in the face – forceful enough to make a dent in denial.

Her annoyingly well-groomed and nauseatingly good-mannered friend gently touches the small of her back to guide her toward her seat. His hand then glides up and comes to rest on her right shoulder, squeezing it gently. And the man witnessing it adjusts his tie and runs his fingers through his hair. The implications of this intimacy are just too painful for him to ponder. He closes his eyes and his grip on the cup tightens but that's all he does. That's probably all he can do. His eyes blink open. She is still there, still not alone. The young man leans closer, whispers something to her from behind and they laugh. Again. And the man is struggling quietly, trying his best to overcome the pain that's twisting his insides with unexpected and frightening strength.

He is just overworked. Stressed-out. Sleep-deprived. _Jealous._

His grip loosens on the cup and it slightly tilts toward him. The coffee he's already forgotten spills on his chest and it jolts him out of his misery. He scrambles to his feet, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Some of the guests sitting nearby look oddly at him and the young man's gaze also shifts in his direction. For a brief moment they lock eyes. He deems that more than enough, puts down the cup with a bit more force than necessary and reaches for a napkin to dab at the wet brown stain on his favorite tie. It doesn't help much and his pain is now laced with mute anger. The spilt coffee has already soaked through his shirt. He can feel its damp coldness clinging to his skin.

Perfect.

He sneaks a look at her – still smiling, still blissfully unaware of him. Good. _Better pray it remains that way._ He does.

He saw her. She looks fine. She looks happy. He's had his coffee. None of it happened exactly how he expected it but it's time to go.

For the first time today he gives in to that annoying little voice that sometimes reminds him so much of his ex-wife, and goes to flee mode. A coffee-stained napkin lands next to the treacherous cup, then his briefcase and overcoat are lifted from the chair. He starts toward the door but gets halted when the coat gets caught. He wrestles it free, stumbles, and bumps into a table. Cups, saucers, and spoons clink loudly in protest at the contact and he bites back a cry. How a small round table can cause so much pain he couldn't tell but his vision blurs a little – both from the pain and from the effort of keeping himself from cursing the vicious piece of furniture and this wretched coffee house into oblivion. He collects himself, forces a smile on his face and apologizes to the elderly couple sitting there, then turns and sidesteps a little boy just in time – only to collide with a woman.

Did somebody shrink this place and put in extra furniture when he wasn't looking?

Instead of sneaking out gracefully, he's dancing a bizarre and utterly humiliating dance in this maze of misery with brief intervals of mumbled apologies. _Some crisis manager you are._ He doesn't even dare glance in her direction anymore as he dashes through the door into the pouring rain.

If he had looked, he would have seen her staring at him. He would have seen the recognition, confusion, and emotion washing over her face.


	2. Rain

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.**  
><strong>To **Anon**, **Kat**, **Geiroidin**, and **Nat**: thank you so much, guys, for the kind words. They made me so happy, you have no idea. :)

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><p>~ <strong>RAIN<strong> ~

He steps outside and gets soaked instantly, which reminds him of one crucial thing he's neglected to factor into his not-so-great escape plan: rain. He can already feel the damp weight of his suit jacket on his shoulders and the cold tickling of wet, sticky hair. He quickens his pace but soon decides to stop under the roof of a shop. Being around her has always been a somewhat humbling experience but this definitely takes the cake. His attention is on the traffic now, searching for a free taxi. Naturally, there isn't a single one. He reaches into his jacket pocket and fishes out his BlackBerry to continue the hunt online, but the coldness of his fingers, the slight shaking of his hands, and the water dripping from his hair make things increasingly blurry, slippery, and frustrating.

Her gaze is still fixed on the door through which he has left, hoping he reappears. Soon the door opens again and she feels a jolt of anticipation. But it's not him and her heart sinks a little bit.

"You know him?"

She doesn't answer. She didn't even hear the question. He gets impatient and pokes her to draw her attention back to himself. "What?" she asks, turning back half-confused, half-irritated. Her eyes are on him now but part of her mind is still somewhere else. On someone else.

"That clown," he says, indicating the door with an amused, mildly condescending nod of his head, referring to the man who exited it a few moments ago. "Do you know him?"

_Clown_. The anger that word ignites yanks her back to the here and now. She glances out the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of him. "I do," she answers, her voice measured, and she doesn't look back at him. He realizes his mistake and tries to appease her. "You know, if you wanna go after h-"

She rises to her feet before he could finish his sentence. "Thanks." She quickly grabs her coat from the back of the chair. Stunned, he opens his mouth but this time he can't get a single word out. "I'll call you." With that she turns and bolts out of the place in an eerily similar fashion to how that strange man left earlier.

She steps outside and turns her coat into a makeshift umbrella by simply holding it above her head. She glances to the left. There's only a few people there but he's not among them, she is sure. Is he already gone? Her head snaps to the right and her gaze is drawn to a lonely figure – sharply dressed and the only one without an umbrella – stranded under a small shop roof overhanging the pavement.

Her face brightens. It's definitely him, and he appears to be engaged in a particularly intense battle with his phone. She regards him from a distance, trying to match reality with memory. He is unaware of her and she is fine with that. In fact, she wants it that way just for a little while. She enjoys watching him.

His frustration is growing rapidly by each slip of his finger, by each subsequent mistype, and his temper is near the breaking point. He takes a deep breath, glances up and catches sight of his own appearance in the shop window. He sniffs and narrows his eyes. Messy hair, tired eyes, stained tie, wet clothes, still no means of transportation, and a very important meeting to attend – he checks his watch – in less than 2 hours. He stares back at his reflection, then turns away with barely restrained disgust.

That's when he notices her.

She's standing a bit further away and her head is covered with her coat, but it's her, no doubt. One hand lets go of the coat and she offers a little wave. His heart starts racing again. She smiles and starts walking toward him. He quickly runs his hand through his wet hair, then along his tie, and finally he rubs it on his thigh, drying his palm. He practically stops breathing as she approaches. _What__ the__ hell__ is__ wrong __with __you?_ The Terror of Michigan Avenue reduced to a shy schoolboy, panicking at the sight of a smiling girl, 19 years his junior, who also happens to be Wendy Scott-Carr's ex-nanny. Gretchen would have a field day with this, he's sure, and after the cheese fiasco the mere thought makes him worried – worried for Natalie. All of a sudden, there seem to be lots of valid reasons for putting as much distance between her and him as possible, but they all crumble between the affection and attraction re-ignited by her presence.

"Hi," she says as she joins him, lifting the wet coat off of her head. She meets his nervousness with a small smile under the roof. There isn't much room but he doesn't mind sharing with her.

A soft "hi" tumbles from his lips and they regard each other for a moment. There's a lot more he would love to say, so much more, but the words need time to line up in a coherent order – some more than others. In the meantime, he gives his stained tie little self-conscious pats. In this windy, cold weather their silence is still, warm, and awkward. He is embarrassed, pleased, conflicted, and she is happily puzzled by his semi-guarded yet intense reaction.

Apparently, not much has changed in the past few months. They still try to act casual. They try. They still somewhat daunt each other. They still excite and stir each other. There's still another, younger guy. He's still a coward.

"How are you?" he asks and mentally high-fives himself for not stuttering.

"Fine, thank you."

"Great. … Very glad to hear that." He smiles but in spite of his best efforts, there's a tinge of sadness to it.

Her eyes stay on him, taking in the various details of his curious appearance with mounting concern. A shiver courses through his body. It's tiredness. The wet jacket. The cold wind. Her gaze.

"Are you okay?"

"Yesiamfine," he blurts out slightly defensively, then, after successfully repressing another shiver, he repeats it more slowly, hoping to make it sound more believable.

But she doesn't believe him. "You don't look fine."

There it is again, that refreshing bluntness. A helpless laugh escapes him and he runs a hand across his face, wiping his brow of water. "It's been an eventful day," he says but that's all he's willing to confess and she doesn't press him. He flashes a nervous smile and she can't help grinning – she's taken by him. He is a mess yet somehow still appealing, and she can't fight down the impulse to reach out and touch him. Warm, somewhat tentative fingertips brush against damp fabric, and she gently tugs at the sleeve of his suit jacket.

"Why didn't you say you were coming?"

Intelligent eyes are searching his face for a truth he isn't prepared to give. And the lie forms quickly in his mind but the words come out haltingly: "I… It-it was all very last minute." His voice is soft and vulnerable. Once again, she doesn't pry and he is grateful. Her gaze drifts upward now and she studies his sopping hair.

"I have a hairdryer," she says, restrained hope and anxiety mixing in the simple, abrupt offer. She wants to help. She promised. It takes him off-guard. He freezes and needs several moments to realize what she's suggesting. "I…that…" More words are forming on his lips but they all end up being unspoken. His jaw sets and he averts his eyes, considering her words and all the possible implications behind them.

"Natalie-"

"It's… not what you think," she interrupts with the familiar phrase, and when he looks back at her, he sees a flash of embarrassment. It eases his own a little bit.

"Okay. So it's not that thing that dries wet hair?" he asks mock-seriously. She rolls her eyes, then bites her lip, trying to stifle a grin. In that instant the mischievous glint in his eyes is replaced by something else, but it's gone before she could properly place it. It is blinked away but it continues bubbling inside him, making his heart pound like crazy, making him reckless, urging him to surrender. Unfortunately, it also sets off alarms in his brain. Reason and doubt kick in, reminding him who he is, where he is, and why he came here in the first place.

"I-I gotta go," he says and feels each syllable stab through him.

"I understand." This time she barely manages a smile. Tormented, he looks away and then back at her. He wants to do the right thing here but he's no longer sure what that might be. He feels an urge to explain.

"I have an appointment and…" he opens his arms, indicating the reason why he has to go: his stained, wet attire. "I'm afraid one hairdryer's not gonna be enough to fix this."

"I can get rid of that, too," she says, indicating the coffee stain on his tie and shirt with a small nod. He furrows his brow, then a faint smile comes to his lips as he weighs his options. He's pressed for time. She lives nearby. He wants to go with her. He checks his watch.

"The meeting's in 90 minutes," he says. His tone has shifted. It's slightly teasing now, as though offering a challenge.

She decides to go for it. She's not ready to say goodbye and looks him right in the eye. "Not a problem." Her voice is matter-of-fact. She seems quite confident.

He narrows his eyes and watches her somewhat fascinated, but he still has his doubts. "Don't you have to work?" he asks and the question is given further emphasis by a raised eyebrow.

"Not until 3," she informs him with a straight face but there's a flicker of amusement in her eyes. She knows he knows she has him cornered. He's out of excuses and left with nothing but a bunch of conflicting impulses. He just stares at her, his mind reeling, trying to figure out what to do. And then it happens.

He caves.

"Okay."


	3. Burglar

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.**  
>Geiroidin<strong>, **Anon**, **Nat**, **aprilf00l**, **SSLE**, **CrazyMayhem**, and **anon**: once again, thanks a million, guys, for being so awesome and making me grin like an idiot. :)

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><p><strong>~ BURGLAR ~<strong>

It's still raining heavily when they finally reach her apartment building. She goes ahead to lead the way and he follows without question or hesitation. He's gotten tired of going through the pros and cons over and over again. As they wait for the elevator to arrive, he shivers again. It was cold when they first met and her words turned into tiny clouds as she accepted his dinner invitation. He smiles to himself as he remembers and she catches him in the act.

"What is it?"

He turns to look at her. "What is what?"

"You were smiling."

He hesitates for a moment. "I must have forgotten myself."

She chuckles. He loves that sound. The elevator arrives and the doors slide open. They step inside and are joined by a few others, including an elegantly dressed elderly woman in her 70's. She steps between Eli and Natalie.

"Hello, my dear," she greets Natalie with a smile and a gentle pat on the arm.

"Hello, Mrs. Green." Natalie leans back slightly and Eli mirrors her movement. She mouths "she's stone-deaf" to him behind Mrs. Green's back.

He nods somewhat confused, then glances down at the old lady and finds her looking up at him with a mixture of keen interest and guarded amusement. Her face is kind but commanding, and her gaze unwavering - she's someone you don't want to cross. He forces a small smile and says hello. She looks away without a word, turns to Natalie and whispers something to her. He doesn't know what to do with that. He looks questioningly at Natalie but she just smiles – how very unhelpful. They were whispering about him, that's for sure, and the thought makes him feel uneasy. His gaze drifts upward and he watches as the red floor numbers slowly tick by.

The elevator reaches the fourth floor and Mrs. Green gets out. So does Natalie and he follows suit. When they arrive at her door, she slips in her key and steps inside. He moves to do the same but feels a warm hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Wait here," she tells him and disappears inside.

He waits and listens attentively. He hears sounds of hurried steps and some rummaging going on inside, then silence. He leans closer but gets distracted when a police officer appears at the end of the hallway and slowly makes his way toward him.

"Sir," the policeman greets him.

Eli nods. "Officer. Is everything all right?"

"Nothing to worry about, sir. We're just checking the building."

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"There was a break-in last night. We're making sure we haven't missed anything," he says then stops when he notices that the door in front of Eli is ajar. "Do you live here, sir?" he asks with narrowed eyes. His right hand rests on his belt, right next to his gun – a fact not lost on Eli.

"No."

"Then may I ask what you're doing?"

"He's waiting for me," Natalie says as she appears with a towel in her hand. Perfect timing.

The officer's gaze shifts between her and Eli, trained eyes looking for any suspicious sign. There is none. That is, none that would suggest something illegal is going on. Satisfied, he nods and walks off. Eli's stare remains on him for a few more seconds.

"He thought you were the burglar?" she asks, grinning.

His gaze drifts back at her. "I've been accused of worse things," he says with a sad smile. She knows. She's heard or read most of them, hoping but never quite believing they weren't true.

She takes his overcoat and briefcase and throws the towel on his head. "My roommate is kind of a neat freak, so please try not to drip all over the place."

He tries and follows her straight into the bathroom. She suddenly stops and turns around. They almost collide. Embarrassed smiles and apologies are instantly exchanged. She steps to the right but he accidentally moves in the same direction. She redirects herself but so does he and, again, they almost walk into each other. He feels increasingly idiotic. She changes tactics, puts her hands on his shoulders and gently moves him out of her way.

"You should take this off," she says, referring to his soaked jacket. He nods. His practiced fingers quickly undo its buttons and she helps peel it off of him.

"Your tie and shirt, too," she informs him on her way out and he stares back at her silently. She turns to look at him. "As in you need to take them off." He still doesn't react. "Don't worry. I won't peek." He cracks a smile and she leaves.

He towels his hair as dry as he can. He puts the towel on the sink and soon it is joined by his tie and shirt. Stripped down to the waist, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. The shivering has stopped and he can already feel the warmth seeping back into his fingers. He runs them through his rumpled hair, trying to tame it a little.

Unbeknown to him, he is being watched now. She said she wouldn't but couldn't resist it. She hadn't seen him in anything other than a suit before so the opportunity was quite tempting. Surprisingly enough, there isn't much difference. Even in this suit-less state his body is… _elegant_. That's the word that pops into her head and that's as far as she lets her mind wander. She tears her gaze away and knocks on the door frame.

"Here you go," she says when he appears at the door. She's offering a folded black t-shirt to him. He hesitates, eyeing it for a moment. It's not that he's ungrateful, nor is he trying to be purposefully difficult. He simply isn't all that comfortable wearing other people's clothes. She seems to sense that because she quickly adds, "I bought it for sleeping but haven't used it yet. It's been washed, I promise." It appears to ease his reluctance.

"Thank you," he says, trading the tie and shirt for it. She grabs them but he doesn't let go and starts pulling them – and her – a little closer. The nagging need to understand her and this situation has temporarily overridden his self-conscious awkwardness. She doesn't let go, either, letting him pull her closer. She can feel his body heat, hear his breathing, and smell his scent. She briefly studies the freckles on his right shoulder.

"You don't have to do this." His voice is quiet but his tone is firm. He needs to make sure this isn't some misguided act of charity born out of a sense of obligation that is neither owed nor expected. He needs her to look him in the eye so he can see she understands that. "Natalie…?"

"I know," she says, her eyes shifting from the freckles to find his. "But I want to." Why? The unspoken follow-up question hangs in the air between them. She cannot answer yet, but she wants him to stick around so they can try and figure it out together. They regard each other in silence – it's a conversation where no words are needed and an understanding is reached. He lets go, severing their link of cotton, silk, and coffee stain, and she walks out.


	4. Gray

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.**  
><strong>

**SSLE**, **Nat**, **Anon**, and **aprilf00l**: you rock. Thanks so much for taking the time to give me some feedback. It's appreciated big time. In fact, it's like crack cocaine to me and a great relief, too, because after reading through a chapter for the hundredth time, I can no longer tell if this or that is in-character or not, believable or not, good or not. So once again, thank you. :)

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><p><strong>~ GRAY ~<strong>

After about 20 minutes he finally emerges from the bathroom and crosses to the kitchen. Natalie's full concentration is on the shirt and she doesn't notice him. Not wanting to startle her, he keeps a safe distance and clears his throat to signal his presence. She raises eyes at him and smiles. His headsuit seems to be back to normal – meticulously combed, every hair in place, perfect.

"I see you found the hairdryer."

"Yes." Along with various other useful items but she doesn't really need to know about that. "Thank you." He sits down on a chair at the kitchen counter, shifts a couple of times, pokes at various things, rolls his shoulder blades, flips through a magazine, stretches his back, then tugs at his new outfit – all that under the span of two minutes. He is like a slightly hyperactive 9-year-old. Or a giant, well-groomed cat with some pent-up energy. She hasn't decided yet.

"Do you like the t-shirt?" she asks.

He glances down at the piece of clothing in question, then back at her. It looks good on him but it itches a bit. Also, it has "I have issues" written on it with white capital letters. It's just a t-shirt but it's mocking him on some level, he's sure. "I believe it's a perfect fit," he declares in a serious tone. He does talk like a newspaper sometimes – one with cartoons and puzzles and fun mixed in with the serious stuff and the compulsory b.s.

Her focus is back on the shirt but a smile lingers on her face. He watches her.

"How's the war on stain going?" he asks.

"I'm so gonna win," she declares without looking up and he doesn't doubt her. He takes out his phone and begins typing.

She glances at him. "And how's the party planning business going?"

He grins. "Great. But ask me again next week."

"Is this meeting important?"

"Oh, yes," he answers, slightly distracted.

"And where is it?"

"At the Fairmont."

"That's not exactly next door," she remarks but he is oblivious to the change in her tone.

"I know. That's why…" he trails off as he finishes typing, "I ordered a taxi." Quite satisfied with himself, he looks up but his smile fades when he sees the serious expression on her face. Oh god, what did he do again?

She sets aside his shirt. "We didn't meet by accident, did we?" He swallows, his brain already switching to risk assessment mode. "What were you really doing in that coffee house, Eli?" Her voice is soft – pleading not demanding.

"I-I was told they had really good coffee," he lies and his mouth suddenly goes dry. He doesn't care how wrong it feels. Telling the truth would probably be riskier and more embarrassing. He can't. He doesn't want to.

"I would think you could find even better at a five-star hotel."

"I…" he starts but trails off as she slides a key card in front of him on the counter. His key card for his room at the Fairmont. He stares at it silently, his mind racing. As a crowning touch, she places a slip of crumpled, wet paper on top of the key card – on it the now smudgy blue lines of her work address, her home address, and her personal cell number.

"I wasn't snooping. I needed to empty your shirt pockets."

He feels the blood drain from his head. "It's not what it looks like." That's all he manages to squeeze out. His mouth has become so terribly dry.

"Well, it looks like your trip wasn't all that last minute after all," she says, correctly assessing the situation. She isn't angry. She's just wary. The last time he approached her in this less than straightforward and rather confusing manner, she ended up in the middle of a scandal, got kicked out of the university and almost got deported. This time she wants – needs – the truth up-front so she can properly deal with whatever comes next. "Eli?"

He doesn't look up. He chews on the inside of his mouth, staring at the "evidence" in front of him. She wants black and white and he lives in gray. He loves gray. Gray is familiar. Gray is comfortable and safe.

"What did she tell you?" he asks, still avoiding her eyes. When she doesn't answer, he clarifies, "Mrs. Green… in the elevator."

She hesitates. She doesn't want to offend him but maybe he needs to hear it – needs to hear her say it out loud. "She told me that I should be careful about bringing home strays because one never knows where they have been." Slowly, silently, sadly, he glances up at her and she continues, "And when they bite… it hurts like hell."

She would know all about that. "Nannygate" was a pretty serious bite – one he didn't deserve forgiveness for. She stares at him and he stares back. His face is granite now, his gaze is intense. "Wise woman," he says, then looks away.

She rests her hands on the counter. Her fingertips are only inches away from his. He stares at them. She stares at the gray in his hair, wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. "I like you, Eli." His shoulders rise and fall with a silent, heavy sigh. "Against my better judgment… and, apparently, everybody else's." She sees his jaw clench but he still won't look at her. He's clamming up. "I really like you." Her index finger brushes against his and he finally lifts up his head. "But I need you to be honest with me."

He swallows dry. Honesty is a very nice concept but he often finds it to be resistant to practical application. Especially if there's a considerable risk of being hurt as a consequence. But sometimes it's worth it. He already lost her once by staying silent. The possibility of the same happening again unsettles him but it takes a while before the words come out.

"I'm not stalking you," he says abruptly, his voice hoarse. "I do have a meeting to get to." He stops, takes a breath, then more words lurch from his mouth. "But that's not the only reason I came here. I wanted…" he halts again, struggling, searching, and she waits patiently at the other side of the kitchen counter. He looks away. He glances up, down, sideways, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally settles on that wet, smudgy piece of paper. "I wanted to see you, to see how you were getting along. I asked our investigator to find your address. Your _work_ address, nothing more. But she is always very thorough so… Anyway, I didn't really plan any of this and I didn't want to bother you. I just waited there but then-then it started raining and… and I'd left my umbrella at the hotel, and then you walked in and it was… you... you were happy so I left."

There. Honesty. It was a bit jumbled, the words limping and rough around the edges, but it's the best he can manage at the moment, and he hopes it's enough. He steals a glance at her.

Slowly, she leans across the counter. She reaches out, gently pulls the phone from his grasp, types something, then slips it back into his palm. "Your investigator found my old number. That's the new one," she says with a trace of a smile.

He blinks. He wants to kiss her, he really does, but right now all his lips manage to accomplish is to form a small smile. He watches, silent and still, as she walks away and resumes her battle with the stain on his shirt. He could do a little victory jig on the counter but restrains himself. Does he deserve this? To be this happy? Probably not, but he doesn't have time to go down that familiar road of self-torture because someone is knocking at the front door.

* * *

><p><strong>bonus feature<strong>: Alan in that black tee: alancumming[DOT]tumblr[DOT]com/post/9880105527


	5. Dick

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

_a/n #1_: **SSLE**, **Nat**, **Geiroidin**, **Hollystream**, **aprilf00l**, **Anon**, **Do**, and **Rachel**: you guys are beyond fantastic. I'm actually running out of ways to tell you just how much you rock my little corner of this universe. Thank you for making me feel so much less awkward and nervous about posting this fic. I love you all.

_a/n #2_: I know the pace is not exactly neck-breaking but I'm a sucker for those little character moments that lead up to the big ones, so I'm afraid I'll have to torture you (and our couple) for a little while longer. But we are getting _there_. ;)

_a/n #3_: we are only a handful of chapters in but I'm thrilled to announce that this fic has already spawned a fanmix. If you need some fitting background noise while you read, check it out: roominthecastle[DOT]tumblr[DOT]com/post/12045210069/egnf-mix

* * *

><p>~ <strong>DICK<strong> ~

"Could you get that?" she asks and he obediently rises to his feet.

"Sure."

He walks to the door, opens it, and finds the younger man from the coffee shop standing there. Eli's blank stare meets a happy face but that merriness rapidly transitions into bewilderment. "I-I'm sorry," the unexpected guest says, then smiles again, trying to mask his confusion. "I must have the wrong apartment."

"You must have," Eli agrees and shuts the door in his face. It feels good but he knows the feeling is most likely temporary. This guy won't just walk away. He could sympathize with that but he doesn't want to. Instead, he savors the last remaining moments of peace. Soon the knocking resumes, as expected. Eli opens the door again, looking completely unapologetic. It's still the same guy but this time he looks even more bewildered – and a tinge agitated. The two stare at each other in silence for a while, then Eli gets bored.

"Can I help you?" he asks slightly irritated, eyebrows raised.

"Is… is Natalie here?"

Eli takes his time with the answer, eyeing the younger man as if deciding whether he is worthy of a reply or not. He's feeling generous today. "Yes."

There's a long moment of silence.

"I'd like to speak with her," the other man says at last and leans to the side so he can peek behind Eli. If he is waiting to get invited in, he's waiting in vain.

Eli tilts his head, considering his request. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like this guy, either. "Why?"

"Why? I…" He snorts, laughs, still baffled, then his voice trails off. He's losing his patience. "I'm sorry, who are you?" There's a hint of anger in his tone and his mild, all-smiles façade begins to crumble.

Eli is about to answer when they hear Natalie's voice from inside: "Who is it?"

Her increasingly aggravated friend opens his mouth to answer but Eli beats him to it. "A person who wants to speak with you."

"I'll be there in a minute."

Eli turns back to convey the message. "She needs a minute."

"Yes," the other man says in a clipped tone. "I heard." He's no longer smiling.

They resume staring at each other in silence. The younger man's expression suddenly changes as a realization arrives. "You're that guy from the coffee shop, right?"

Eli ignores his question. "And you are…?"

"Richard Thomas." He extends a hand. Eli gives it a look before shaking it somewhat reluctantly. Something occurs to him.

"Any relation to Frank Michael Thomas?" he asks with furrowed brows.

"He's my father." Eli nods, taking in the information. "You know him?"

"I know of him. … So are you and Natalie work friends then?"

"Um… yes. Sort of. She didn't…?"

"She didn't what?"

"She didn't mention me?"

Eli shakes his head.

"Oh…well…" It's clearly not the answer he expected. Now he looks at Eli – really looks at him –, studying and sizing him up. "I like your t-shirt."

Eli smiles. "I like your purse," he says, gesturing with his head at the smallish bag in Richard's hand.

"It's not mine."

Eli raises his hands. "No judgment."

Richard clearly has more to say on the subject but Natalie emerges from the apartment, interrupting them. "Hey," she greets him. "What are you doing here?" It is a surprise but not exactly the pleasant kind.

"I…" Richard starts but trails off when he feels eyes on him. Both he and Natalie turn to look at Eli who still stands at the door with them, observing silently and intently. He gazes back at them without the slightest intention of moving. Natalie hands him his stain-free shirt.

"Here you go," she says, her tone and body language informing him that he's no longer needed in the doorway. Richard agrees with his dismissal and is quick to make it official.

"It was nice meeting you," he tells him with a supercilious smile.

"Likewise, _Dick_." Quite satisfied with himself, Eli turns and walks inside with a little grin on his face. He knows he's being really childish but it feels so good. He slowly makes his way toward the bathroom, straining his ears.

"I know you said you'd call," Richard says and presents her with the purse, "but you left your phone."

She takes her purse from him. She is genuinely grateful. "Thanks. You didn't have to… I mean, you could have left it at the office."

"I know. But I wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Well, everything is."

"I see you found your friend."

"I did."

Apparently she isn't in a talkative mood either.

"He seems a little…" Rude. Adverse. Territorial. Older than you. "Tense."

A nod. "Yeah," she says but doesn't elaborate further. She doesn't invite him in, either. He looks at her. Something has changed. Something has shifted but not in his favor. He can feel it. She stands right in front of him but there's a certain distance between them now that wasn't there an hour ago. It wasn't there until that other guy stumbled out of the coffee house and – somehow – into their lives.

"All right. I'm going then. See you back at the office," he says with a weak smile that masks irritation and a growing concern.

"I'll be there." He nods and leaves. Things have definitely changed and he doesn't like it. Not one bit.

She slowly closes the door, turns and leans against it, trying to sort things out – neatly label them, put them in separate little boxes –, but it isn't working. The labels come off and the boxes rip open. But then a voice cuts through the turmoil in her head. His voice. It's muffled at first but getting closer, clearer. He emerges from the bathroom. He's wearing his shirt now but he isn't talking to her. He's on the phone with someone.

"No!" he yells suddenly, then lowers his voice as he notices her. "I don't care. Make something up." He halts, listening to whoever it is on the other end, and she watches him. He looks different in work mode. He _is_ different. For one, he's louder. Much more confident. Aggressive, even. Nothing like the man who sat by the kitchen counter only a few minutes ago. "Yes. I'm aware of that. And I still don't care," he says and looks around the apartment. She scrapes herself off the door to get what he's looking for. Soon she reappears with his tie in her hand.

"No, no, no. Don't." Another pause. He listens and she steps closer. His eyebrows ask a question and her hands answer by slipping his tie around his neck. Her eyes are on the tie and his are on her. The other person's voice snaps him out of his trance. "What?" he asks a bit confused. "No, I'm listening." At least he tries. This warm and sweet-scented closeness is really very distracting. He lifts up his left arm to check his watch, briefly enwrapping her in an almost half-hug. "Yes, I'll be there on time. Don't worry. … Yes. … I'm in good hands," he says. She glances up and he smiles at her. "Okay. Yeah. See you there." He pockets the phone as she continues tying his tie. He watches the process with great interest. "So…" he says but doesn't continue.

"So…?" she asks, prompting.

"Nanny. Day trader. Translator. Professional stain-remover. Is there anything else I should know about?"

"Is there anything else you want to know about?"

He smiles. Oh yes. So many things. He doesn't even know where to start. The smile fades. Actually, he does know where to start.

"Who's Richard?"

She doesn't look up. "My boss' son. But you already know that."

"No, I mean, who is he… to you?" It's none of his business, really, and he is sort of afraid of the answer, but the strategist in him demands a clear picture of the board before making a move.

"A friend," she answers. She wanted honesty. It should be a two-way street.

He raises eyebrows at that. "A friend?"

"Yes. Someone I have fun with."

"Fun? As in… what? Playing charades? Scrabble? … Skydiving?"

"Fun as in nothing serious."

He mulls this over. "Is he aware of his 'not serious' status?"

"Well, we didn't sign a contract or anything but I think he is, yes."

He isn't entirely convinced but drops the subject as he remembers something.

"What happened to the ventriloquist guy?" He rakes his brain for a name. "Andrew?"

Her hands stop for a moment and she fixes him with a stare. "Andre. And he is a contortionist," she corrects him, then her attention switches back to the tie. "He is no longer in the picture."

"I see." He hesitates. "His circus schedule wasn't flexible enough?"

"Well, let's just say he didn't exactly bend over backwards for _me_," she says and looks up at him.

They manage to keep a straight face for a few more seconds, then both burst out laughing. Nothing brings two people together like cracking bad jokes at an absent third party. He really should thank Andre someday. It's the second time the contortionist proved to be a great tension breaker.

She completes the tying, adjusts his collar, and gives the tie a little tug. "There. Good as new."

"Thank you."

He smiles gratefully and she smiles back. His face will hurt tomorrow from all the smiling but he can't seem to stop when she's around. Marissa was right. Natalie makes him happy.

"You're welcome."

He lifts his jacket from a chair near the radiator and shrugs it on, then grabs his briefcase and overcoat. There is nothing else left but saying goodbye – something both are reluctant to do. They walk to the front door and she opens it for him.

"How long are you staying?" she asks and he turns back, happy to delay his inevitable departure.

"I don't know yet. If things go well today, then… maybe a week."

"And if they don't?"

"Then I leave tonight."

She nods and they look at each other, neither wanting to move. She seems to be on the brink of some decision and he waits patiently for her to make it. She finally plucks up the courage and leans forward, planting a small kiss on his cheek. His eyes close as her lips touch his skin. Their softness lingers a bit longer than warranted but then again, it isn't a simple peck on the cheek. It's a cautious but maddeningly sensual gesture. The sensation is magnified by the fact that it's been a while since he let anyone so close. He turns his head slightly as she moves hers away. Noses brush. Breaths mingle. Thoughts scramble. Then a relatively safe distance is regained but this charged moment of mutual attraction keeps hanging on between them. If he didn't have to go…

But he does. He knows it. She knows it.

"Good luck," she says, looking slightly flushed but in control. For now, they don't push things further. She is still hesitant and doesn't quite trust him yet, and he is running pretty low on self-confidence as far as relationships are concerned. Vanessa made sure of that.

"I'll do my best," he promises. "It was really great seeing you again."

"You too."

He nods, smiling. "Well… I better get going," he says but doesn't move. Suddenly his phone goes off, mercilessly reminding him of his responsibilities. He checks it. "Taxi's here."

"You should hurry, then. They won't wait around forever."

"Right," he says. "Thank you, again… for the damage control."

She smiles. He turns and starts walking away.

"Eli."

He eagerly spins around and she walks up to him.

"Take this," she says, handing him an umbrella.

He accepts it, then looks back up at her. "Um, thank you. I'll… I'll get it back to you."

She regards him quietly, then bites her lip again. She has another outburst of bravery. "I kinda need it tomorrow so if you could bring it back today, that would be great."

"O-kay," he says.

This is probably the lamest cover for a date ever but neither of them seems to care.

"Say around 7?"

A violent mixture of happiness and terror floods every cell of his body. It really is a date.

"7… is great. Yes. 7. Okay." He stops talking before the rambling gets any worse.

"All right then." She smiles and it calms him down somewhat. "See you at 7."

"7 it is." He really should stop saying "7." He needs to slow down his mind so his mouth can pick up more than just fragments.

She gives him an amused once-over. "Bye."

He watches her walk back to her apartment, not quite believing what just happened.

But he isn't the only one watching.


	6. Late

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

**Hollystream**, **Nat**, **odo**, **Rachel**, **SSLE**, **aprilf00l**, **Anon**, and **Do**: I don't deserve you, guys, seriously, but I love you and treasure you. This is my first fic and I'm still figuring things out, but I couldn't have asked for a more understanding, patient, supportive, amazing, awesome reading audience. Thanks so much. And also thanks to everyone else who still reads this. I didn't know there were so many Eli/Natalie fans out there. I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the ride so far. I'll try my best not to disappoint you in the future either.

* * *

><p><strong>~ LATE ~<strong>

Still clutching the umbrella, he exits the building and steps into the waiting taxi. He buckles the seatbelt, gives the driver the address, and the car swiftly melts into the rainy rush of the capital. He stares out the window, lips curving with residual happiness, as the grayish blue urban life blurs past him. The windshield wipers slap back and forth like a metronome, providing a calming, familiar rhythm that helps settle his chaotic thoughts. He watches his fingers curl and uncurl. His joints groan slightly in protest. It's been a while since he played. Nowadays those free Saturdays are mostly spent catching up on sleep – if he's lucky – not unwinding in the soothing company of 88 black and white keys and a bottle of Bruichladdich. He hits a few imaginary notes on his thigh. Maybe he will play something for her. Maybe. He sighs and catches himself smiling again. Then he gets panicky. It hits him consciously for the first time – the realization that whatever _this_ may be, it has already gone way beyond a simple "palate cleanser" crush. Aside from close family members, he rarely plays in front of people he knows. The mere fact that she's somehow already included within that small circle is… he doesn't even know what that means. His phone goes off again, derailing his train of thought. He checks the screen, frowns, then shoves the BlackBerry back into his coat pocket. He stares out the window again and sighs.

The taxi glides to the curb in front of the Fairmont. Even through the slightly fogged-up window Eli can easily make out the nervous shape of Frank Landau. The DCC chairman stands only a few feet away, cold rain spilling off the rim of his giant umbrella – he's like a big bear in a watery cage. He angrily checks his watch. Taking it as his cue, Eli pays the driver and climbs out.

"Where the hell have you been?" Frank greets him as Eli joins him under the umbrella. "I've been calling you."

"I know," Eli replies dismissively. He is in no mood for pointless petty fights right now. He needs to save what's left of his energy for the boardroom meeting. And for later tonight, if possible.

"You're late," Frank remarks as they enter the lobby.

"I am." His flippant manner only adds more fuel to the anxious chairman's mounting anger.

"They are already here."

Eli doesn't respond. He just keeps walking.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is this by any chance your special way of making a good impression?"

They reach the elevator. Eli stops and turns to face Frank. "I've already made a good impression. Better than good, actually. _That__'__s_ what got us invited here." The elevator arrives. Eli moves to step inside but stops in his track and turns back to Frank. "You're welcome, by the way." Now he steps inside and Frank follows suit, stewing.

"Which floor is it again?" Eli asks and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Third."

Eli pushes the button. The doors close and tense silence ensues.

"You-" Frank starts but Eli cuts him off.

He stands with his fingertips pressed against his eyes, feeling a massive headache coming on. "Just stop talking, Frank. Please. For both our sakes."

Frank reluctantly complies, then waves a white handkerchief in front of Eli's face. Eli turns to look at it, then his gaze glides past it and locks on Frank. "Do you wish to surrender?" he asks with furrowed brows.

Frank rolls his eyes. "You have a little something there," he says, indicating a spot on his cheek. Eli angrily grabs the handkerchief and starts rubbing his face. He has a pretty good idea what Frank was referring to. A small lipstick smudge.

They reach the third floor and exit the elevator. Frank grabs him by the elbow and draws him aside.

"What?" Eli snaps at him.

"What? I'll tell you what. You don't answer your phone. You're late. And clearly you're still not entirely here. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Frank asks in a hushed but firm tone.

"I'm trying to get to this very important meeting," Eli replies with an innocent face.

"Oh drop the cutesy shit, Eli, and wake the hell up already. You know what's at stake here." Eli averts his eyes. Yes, he knows. His jaw muscles clench but he remains silent, and Frank dials back the harshness a little bit. "You can't afford to be distracted. If you screw this up, you might as well throw in the towel right now because very soon you won't even be able to afford a goddamn pen for the campaign office."

Eli looks back at him. He's defensive and angry but keeps the lid on. "Are you finished?"

Frank regards him. "Are _you_?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Eli says and with that, he marches off.

* * *

><p>Four hours, three plates of hors d'oeuvre, one intense discussion, and several drinks later Eli finds himself strolling alongside the eldest daughter of Mr. Robert Fiedler in the hotel's courtyard garden. Myra Fiedler is in her late 30's. Elegant. Smart. She's cool charm and quiet confidence, not too talkative – a pleasant company even when one has a splitting headache.<p>

"My father has taken quite a shine to you, Mr. Gold."

He smiles in response. "What about you, Ms. Fiedler? Are you still on the fence?"

"Well, your track record and recent splash in the media did give me some cause for concern."

Her use of the past tense doesn't escape his notice. They stop and Eli turns to face her. "So what changed your mind?"

"You did," she says but aside from a knowing smile she doesn't elaborate further. He gets the not-so-distant feeling that he's been vetted rather thoroughly for this little get-together, which fills him with a certain amount of professional admiration and a healthy dose of apprehension.

He narrows his eyes. "Then what exactly are we doing here?"

"You looked like you could use some fresh air."

He nods, then looks her straight in the eye, shedding the polite charm, discarding the mandatory niceties. He's all business now. "What do you want, Ms. Fiedler?"

She holds his stare, studying him. "I like you, Mr. Gold." He arches an eyebrow. She continues gazing into his eyes, making him feel increasingly exposed. He doesn't like it. "A spin doctor with a heart. It must be rather… inconvenient."

Her assessment gets him by surprise but he doesn't let it show. "I manage."

"No doubt about that," she says with a small smile and they resume their stroll. "That's why I'd like to rope you into a little side project while you're here. Of course, you are free to decline. It won't affect my father's decision to support your candidate. But I'm sure you would earn some additional brownie points by helping me out."

He is silent for a moment. "And what would this 'little side project' entail?"

"We could talk about it tomorrow at lunch."

He mulls it over, chewing on the side of his mouth. No matter what she says this still feels like another fiery hoop to jump through. He's intrigued but hesitant. She can see it. "I'll ask the Chef to make something special."

He raises his eyebrows. "You know him?"

They stop at the French doors that connect the courtyard to the lobby. Inside, Frank and Robert are having an animated discussion. Myra looks at them, then back at Eli.

"It's one of the perks if one's family has large stakes in a hotel."

He chuckles and his gaze sweeps their surroundings. He has to go with his guts here. She watches him, seeing the wheels turn in his head. He decides to humor her. "All right." His vision drifts back to her. "But I need you to do something for me first."

She is game. "I'm listening."

* * *

><p>It's almost 7 when he steps out of the taxi in front of Natalie's building. He showered, shaved, changed, yet he feels far from ready. He carries two large paper bags to the elevator and pushes the call button with his elbow. Nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing.<p>

"It gets stuck sometimes," a voice says from behind. He turns and finds Mrs. Green standing there. She breezes past him and hits the control panel with such force it makes him flinch. "It just needs a little encouragement." She's right. The button lights up and the doors slide open. She steps in. He doesn't move.

"Hurry up, kiddo. I don't have a mountain of free time."

_Kiddo?_ His father used to call him that. He was also possessed by the same kind of unpredictable, crazy energy the little old lady in the elevator apparently is. The kind he also inherited – at least according to his mother. Eli climbs in and the doors slide shut. He stands stiffly and silently, mentally kicking himself for not taking the stairs. He chances a sidelong glance at her. She seems docile enough but it doesn't make these few shared seconds any less uncomfortable for him. His imagination, which is prone to wander in absurd directions when he's tired, doesn't help things either. Why did he have to watch _Devil_? Now he can't get it out of his head. It's ridiculous. But he sneaks another glance at Mrs. Green, just to be on the safe side. Fortunately, she exhibits no homicidal or supernatural inclinations. The doors finally open and she walks off without a word or backward glance. He breathes a sigh of relief and makes his way towards Natalie's door.

He gets there and puts the bags down. He stares at the door for a moment, then reaches up to knock but changes his mind halfway through and ends up checking his watch instead. It's 10 to 7. He looks around and then back at the door, his nervous anticipation mounting. He takes a deep breath. His phone starts ringing, startling him. His face softens when he sees the caller's name. "Hey."

"Hey," Natalie greets him back. "Where are you?"

"At your door. Where are you?"

She turns away from the busy but muted office life at the other side of the glass panes and sighs. "Still at work. I would have called sooner but there's a big client here and we were locked in the conference room…" She shuts her eyes. The next words are the hardest. "And they will lock us back in soon." She bites her lip, waiting for him to say something.

He drops his head, taking a silent moment to absorb the news. The weariness he's managed to keep at bay begins to flood his body and he doesn't fight it. "Oh…"

"I'm so sorry-"

"No, no, no. Don't be. I understand."

She can hear the sad, tired smile in his voice and it makes her feel even worse. "I'll try to sneak out as soon as possible if… if you can wait." Her tone is thick with anxious hope. She's been looking forward to this evening as much as he has.

He straightens up, instantly charged with life. "Sure."

"Great," she says, relieved, then jumps when somebody opens the office door. She turns around and sees her co-worker gesturing silently that they need to go. Natalie nods and holds up a wait-just-a-sec finger. "Listen, Mrs. Green has my spare key."

He shuts his eyes and stifles a groan.

She's unsure how to interpret his sudden silence. "You remember her."

His mouth stretches into a tight smile. "Vividly."

Natalie checks her watch. "She gets back home around this time. Just go to her. She'll give it to you."

"What about her strict 'no strays' policy?" He still feels a bit hurt about that.

"Just ring the bell, smile, and enunciate. You'll be fine."

"Okay," he says, unconvinced, and glances around. Even sitting on the cold, filthy floor seems a much less daunting option right now. "And what about your roommate?"

"He won't be back until next week. … I'll try to get there before that."

A fond smile forms on his face but he doesn't say anything. She gets a bit self-conscious. "That last part was a joke."

"I know."

"Okay. Well… I-I won't be long, I promise."

"All right."

"Bye."

"Bye."

He pockets the phone and, ever so slowly, turns on his heels towards Mrs. Green's door. He takes a deep breath. _This_ isn't going to be pleasant.


	7. Date

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

**Do**, **Rachel**, **aprilf00l**, **SSLE**, **Nat**, **Geiroidin**, **Hollystream**, **Anon**, **sprl1199**, and **KrinWashu**: you guys rule. Plain and simple. Thank you so much for the support, encouragement, and general euphoria. I love you.

**KrinWashu**: again, thanks for that amazing string of reviews (still reeling from it), and to answer your question about Richard, I head-cast Sebastian Stan. He played such a delicious, multi-layered bastard on _Kings_. I just can't get his face out of my head when I write for Dick.

Last but not least, there will be no new chapter next week due to a mountain of school stuff I can no longer ignore. But I'll be back as soon as possible, I promise. :)

* * *

><p><strong>~ DATE ~<strong>

Natalie hangs up and turns to leave but her colleague, Kate, stops her with a wide, information-hungry grin and the inevitable follow-up question. It's been a long, long day and she will pounce on anything not work-related. "Okay, who is he?"

Natalie hesitates. The truth is, she doesn't really know who Eli Gold is - at the moment she knows enough to make her want to know more. She doesn't know what this _thing_ is between them or how long it will be there. She isn't ashamed of her feelings, or him, but so much is still uncertain. Even talking about it with Kate would feel premature. Why put the cart before the horse? Still, the kind of giddiness that's bubbling inside her right now can't be fully hidden. She clears her throat. "Who is who?"

"Mr. Spare Key." Kate's eyes are fixed on Natalie, searching her face for some clue.

"We should go," Natalie deflects and slips past Kate to exit the office. But she hasn't quite escaped yet.

Even with a heavy bundle of paperwork clutched to her chest, Kate quickly catches up to her on the corridor. She is not one to give up that easily, especially today. "I'm guessing he's the reason you've been on cloud nine this whole afternoon," she prods but Natalie's lips remain sealed. "Oh, come on. I'm drowning here," Kate says, referring to the sea of papers in her arms and the long, dull work hours that went and will most likely go with them. "Throw me a bone. Please."

Natalie glances at her desperate friend and her initial reluctance crumbles a bit. Her silence breaks. "Do you remember when you asked me if I had any regrets over leaving Chicago?"

"Yeah. You said there might be one but…" her voice trails off as she makes the connection. Her face lights up. "And he came after you?"

"Well, technically he is here on business."

"_Technically_ he is at your place."

"Right," Natalie says as they arrive at the conference room. She glances inside with a sigh. "_He_ is."

Kate looks from Natalie to the packed room, a determined expression forming on her face. "We need to get you out of here ASAP."

* * *

><p>Eli is staring at Mrs. Green's door. He mentally plays out a few possible ways this conversation could go down but frowns at the end of each. He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. For several moments nothing happens. He shifts from one foot to the other, waiting. He glances back at the paper bags he's left at Natalie's door, making sure they are still there and untouched. They are. Suddenly the door is yanked open and a familiar face emerges. The old lady's outfit, however, throws Eli a bit. She is wearing a white coat over her usual clothes and on it there's a large red splatter – it looks like a blood stain. His brow crinkles as his mind tries to process the image. Thankfully, his eyes quickly find the explanation – a brush in her right hand. Oh thank god. It's just paint.<p>

"Can I help you?" she asks, drawing Eli's gaze from the red stain up to the silver of her eyes. They are focused on his lips, ready to read the careful words that are about to form on them.

"Yes. I'm sorry. My name-"

"I know who you are. What do you want?"

He's surprised but more than happy to cut this short. "Natalie said you had her spare key."

"I do."

"May I have it?" Her eyes narrow. "Please," he adds, hoping it un-narrows them. It doesn't, and he's beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. She makes him feel so guilty for some reason, but, at the very least, she appears to be considering his request. Somewhere amidst the anxiety, impatience, and self-consciousness he finds her a small, hopeful smile. Her eyes leave his lips to take in everything about him, and those few seconds tick by at a geriatric snail's pace.

"Wait here," she says, pointing the brush at him for further emphasis. He nods and she walks back inside but leaves the door open. He waits, motionless. For about 5 seconds. Then his curiosity compels him to lean forward and take a quick peek around. Her apartment looks completely normal. It's very neat, classy, and smells nice – if Mrs. Green were an apartment, he imagines this would be her. A corner is covered with plastic sheets. There's a clean, white canvas placed on an elegantly carved tripod easel. His gaze glides over crowded bookshelves, an old desk, and framed photos, then lands on something truly rare and magnificent – a Bechstein artcase piano. He doesn't even notice when its owner reappears.

"Do you play?" she asks, her voice startling him.

He straightens immediately, embarrassed and awkward. "I did," he replies with a wistful smile and they gaze at each other – warm brown thawing the edges of hard silver.

"I did, too," she tells him, then looks at the piano. "I don't see the point anymore."

She glances back at him and, after a long moment, offers him the key. He looks at the small piece of metal wedged between her thumb and index finger, then back up at her. "It didn't stop Beethoven, you know." Her face remains unreadable but there's a tiny spark of amusement in her eyes.

He takes the key. "Thank you." She nods and they part ways – he a little less guilty and she a little less empty.

* * *

><p>He puts the bags down on the kitchen counter and looks around. It feels weird to be here alone but this way he can at least set things up properly. He sheds his overcoat and jacket, then loosens his tie – this is as casual as he gets tonight. He turns on his heels and gets to work.<p>

After 30 minutes of meticulous preparation there is only one small detail missing and he's turning the entire kitchen upside down for it – in vain. He pulls out his phone and dials. He waits impatiently, then rolls his eyes. "It's me. Eli. Call me back. It's important." He hangs up and gives the kitchen a disapproving look.

With the phone still in his grasp he drifts to the couch and eyes it longingly. It looks so comfortable and inviting but if he sits down, he will probably fall asleep, so he wills himself to move on. He wanders around the apartment, looking but not touching. He winds up at the door near the bathroom. It's ajar. There's a particularly colorful striped sock caught between the door and the frame and he crouches down to rescue it. He grabs the doorknob but hesitates. It feels wrong… and exciting. He pushes the door open but doesn't step inside. A grin spreads across his face when he sees the mess. It is definitely her very own little corner but he doesn't set foot in it uninvited. He throws the sock on top of the giant heap of clothes on the bed and softly pulls the door shut.

His phone starts ringing. He picks it up. "Kalinda."

"What can I do for you, Eli?"

He stops in the middle of the kitchen. "Where do you keep the salad bowl at your place?"

A moment of sullen silence. "I don't have a salad bowl," she answers flatly with a tinge of irritation.

Eli ignores it and peeks into a cabinet. "Where would you keep it if you had one?"

"I'm hanging up now."

Frowning, he shuts the cabinet door. She's supposed to be good at finding things. "Wait. There's one more thing."

"It better not be tableware related," Kalinda warns him.

He opens the fridge. "I need you to look into someone…" He closes it. "Without them knowing you are looking."

Silence. "Is this for your campaign?"

He leans down to look in the oven – he is getting desperate. "No, it is for me."

She decides to believe him. "Okay. Who is it?"

He straightens up. "His name's Richard Thomas. You've probably heard of his father, Frank Thomas."

"I met him, too. And what exactly am I looking for?"

He looks into the cabinet above the sink. "Just check under that proverbial rug." Still no sign of the salad bowl.

"Why? Are you planning to pull it out from under him?"

He looks around. His gaze locks on the dishwasher – so obvious, yet he hasn't even checked there. "Not unless I have to." He opens it and his face lights up.

"Are you in some sort of trouble, Eli?"

He takes out the salad bowl with a triumphant grin. "I just like to be prepared."

"All right. I'll see what I can do."

He spins around when he hears a noise.

"Thanks." He abruptly hangs up and darts out of the kitchen. He gets to the front door just as the key turns in the lock. He realizes that he's still holding the salad bowl so he runs back, puts it down and rushes to the door again but the tip of his shoe gets caught in the carpet, sending him stumbling forward. He manages to regain his balance. He looks up and finds Natalie standing at the door with an amused and puzzled expression on her face. "Hi," he greets her, panting a little, trying to strike a nonchalant pose. His heart is in his throat but not just from the running and the near-fall.

"Hi. … Is everything okay?" she asks as she puts down her bag and keys.

"Yes," he says with a smile. For a moment they just look at each other, adjusting, grinning, worrying, and hoping.

She undoes the buttons on her overcoat and he walks up to her to help take it off. The heavy coat slides off her shoulders with ease and she turns around. He doesn't step away and she is completely fine with that. They are still dancing around each other but the circles are getting smaller, their steps less hesitant, the moves less awkward. "So how did the meeting go?"

"Oh I was fabulous," he answers with a confidence he only wishes he had right now. She laughs, easing his nervousness. He grins and leans slightly forward to hang the coat on the rack behind her, testing their boundaries. They appear to be eroding. She is more than aware of his mounting interest in her and he can see and feel it being reciprocated. What he can't figure out is why and that makes his courage falter. Thinking fast and several steps ahead has been his lifeline and safety net for so long but it doesn't work here. When she appears, the cold and calculating Strategist pulls up a comfy chair in a dark, distant corner of his mind – just out of reach – and sits there with a mute smile. In her presence he feels somewhat insecure and completely unprepared – yet, strangely enough, happier than anywhere else.

"Does this mean you're staying?" she asks as he withdraws from her personal space.

"For a few more days, yes." He narrows his eyes. Intensity is replaced by cautious playfulness. "Have you had dinner yet?"

She tilts her head, slightly confused by the change in his demeanor. There's a lot going on behind his eyes and sometimes she wishes she could take a peek inside. Other times the mere idea unsettles her. He is a complicated, sometimes goofy but ultimately risky puzzle in an attractive packaging. She doesn't know how the pieces fit together yet but she is very eager to find out. "I haven't even had lunch yet."

He glances toward the kitchen. "Hmmm…" His gaze shifts back at her. "… so if there's a big bunch of delicious food in your kitchen, that won't be a problem?" he asks with a serious face. The flowers-and-chocolate routine would have been way too obvious. Good food, on the other hand, is practical and carries the "I care about you" message much better than most presents do.

"Not for long once I get there," she says, grinning. She loves him so much right now. She really is starving. He breaks into a broad smile and gestures her to follow him inside. Her eyes grow wide with surprise as they walk in. "Oh my god." He wasn't lying. There's plenty of food and even the smallish kitchen table got a complete makeover. It's beautifully set, waiting for them. It never looked so elegant and inviting before. Her eyes find his. "You didn't have to."

He pulls out the chair for her. "I know." She sits and he leans down. "But I wanted to." She smiles, recognizing her own words from earlier today. He goes to get the appetizers and her eyes follow him.

"Will you be my waiter tonight?" she asks and he turns to answer.

"Of course."

She glances around. "Did you rob a restaurant on your way here?"

"Sort of," he says, carrying two plates to the table. "You don't have any allergies, do you?"

"No."

"Good." He sets a small plate of shrimp with remoulade in front of her.

He continues waiting on her for the rest of their dinner and she keeps thanking him. They eat, laugh, and talk. No more background checks, no more Google searches – just the two of them, face to face. She talks about her new job, her father, her citizenship test. He talks about his new "home" at Lockhart/Gardner, his daughter, the campaign. They steer clear of the risky subjects and questions – it's an unspoken but deliberate decision which they execute almost effortlessly.

* * *

><p>She puts the last plate into the dishwasher and straightens up. He's leaning against the counter, toweling his hands dry. She secures the top on the salad bowl and puts it in the fridge. She has to move a slab of cheese to make some room and something occurs to her. She's hesitant but the need to know him better wins out. "I saw that report they made on you and cheese," she says, closing the fridge. His hands stop and he glances up at her. He doesn't look thrilled. "Was it all true? You know… what they said."<p>

He averts his eyes and continues toweling his hands even though they are already dry. His movements are becoming strained and slightly angry. This will ruin the evening. Maybe everything. "The good parts were." He hesitates. "And… some of the bad," he adds, uncomfortable, honest, ashamed, his eyes still on his hands. He isn't good. He is what he has to be and that makes him the best - the best at what he does. It's a price he's willing to pay even when it's high. She should know that by now. She should know better than anyone. He knows but it doesn't really bother him anymore – except when he looks at her. Maybe if he stopped looking, her eyes would stop searching. If he could just stop looking… She was a glitch, a tiny, uncrushable pebble in a well-oiled machine. But she just keeps rattling on inside, and it's only a matter of time before the cogwheels of his mind get jammed again.

He raises his head when he feels her presence. She pulls the kitchen towel from his grasp before he rubs his skin off. Their faces are only a couple of inches apart. She gently takes his hand into hers, her thumb rubbing his palm in lazy circles. There's no judgment in her eyes. They shine with something else. He swallows.

"I'm not a nice guy, Natalie." Her thumb doesn't stop. There's a flash of hunger – the same kind that's building inside him with each stroke of her finger. "I… I just get confused sometimes."

"Do I confuse you?"

"You make no sense to me." It comes out like a whisper and gets caught between their lips. She kisses him softly and briefly, then pulls away. It's a silent confession, a dangerous experiment, a heartfelt invitation. Blood is rushing through his ears. Through the noise he hears the Strategist speak from very far away. _Your move._ Then he falls silent. Their fingers entwine. He lets go. No more thinking. Intuition takes over. He leans in. He kisses her slowly, and she kisses back eagerly. Her hands slip from his. Palms and fingers sweep along his bare forearms and his chest. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down. His arms go around her waist, pulling her against him, caressing her back. She licks his lips, tasting Scotch – it tastes much better on him. He gently pushes his tongue into her mouth. She responds. A small moan. A cool jolt of pleasure. Her nails rake skin and graying hair at the nape of his neck. A shiver runs through him. She gets goosebumps. The kiss deepens and intensifies. They break free for air, panting, foreheads pressed together, dizzy. He licks his lips and she bites hers, then grabs his tie, pulling him in once again for another deep, long, almost aggressive kiss. In one swift move he turns her against the counter. She smiles against his lips. His mouth leaves hers, exploring, planting small, gentle kisses along her jaw line. She turns her head, exposing the curve of her neck. His breath brushes against her skin, his lips taste, his teeth graze it lightly. She runs her fingers through his hair, gripping and twisting it, and he bites down on her neck gently, making her moan. His hand slips under her blouse, fingertips touching soft, warm skin. Her hand slides down, grabbing a fistful of shirt, pulling, feeling his pounding heart. He moves his head and his lips find hers once again. He feels his body reacting to her and very soon she will too. They are drifting dangerously close to a point of no return.

That's when the reality-inducing sound of her cell phone penetrates their thick haze. He breaks from the kiss and peeks at the phone on the counter. She rests her head on his shoulder, still clinging to their closeness. She nuzzles his neck, then starts kissing it slowly. She finds a particularly sensitive spot and he presses his lips together to stifle a moan. He glances at the caller ID again.

"I think you should get that," he half-whispers into her ear, his voice raspy. They reluctantly untangle and he takes a step back, giving her some space. Her initial annoyance seems to evaporate when she sees the caller's name. She quickly answers it.

She is still raw with lingering desire but sobering up. "Dad… No. Wai-… slow down. Hol-… hold on a minute," she says and turns back to him.

He looks at her, standing in the slightly awkward, fuzzy, breathless aftermath of a first make-out session. "Is everything all right?" Eli asks, his brow darkening.

"Y-Yeah. Could you… um, could you give me a minute?"

"Sure."

She smiles at him gratefully, her attention switching back to her father. He grabs his glass with some leftover Scotch in it and wanders out of the kitchen. He can use a little time-out anyway. He ends up in the living room again and glances back at Natalie. She is laughing and it makes him smile. He drains his glass in one gulp, then lowers himself onto the couch, giving in to the cushy temptation, melting into it with a long, satisfied sigh. He tilts back his head, his heart and mind slowing down. He decides to rest his eyes for a few minutes – just until Natalie finishes her call.

And after about 20 seconds he falls asleep.


	8. Morning

Yes, I'm back from the dead! It's a Christmas miracle. :D I'm terribly sorry for this mega hiatus but my schedule finally loosened up a bit and I could put together another chapter. I hope you like it.

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><p><strong>Nat<strong>: thanks so much! I fretted _a lot_ over this chapter so I'm thrilled you loved it. :)**  
>aprilf00l<strong>: *beams* thanks heaps! If you're fangirling, I must have done something right. I hope. :) And I'm so sorry I was forced to prolong your agony.**  
>SSLE<strong>: thank you! And we're in complete agreement. It wasn't time for sex yet. Not because I'm a prude or anything but because at this early stage of their relationship it wouldn't, couldn't, have been more than rather meaningless "empty sex", which, of course, has its perks in certain situations but theirs isn't one of those. I want these guys to have more than that and something tells me that they do too. ;) **  
>Rachel<strong>: you make me smile and do wonders to my self-confidence and for that I cannot thank you enough. I'm grateful and very glad that you enjoy this little fic. :)**  
>KrinWashu<strong>: okay, you're seriously spoiling me with your reviews. :) Thanks a million! I'm happy and relieved that you like the little side stories and non-canon characters, too. I try to write them as enjoyable as I can. I created them to bring out various aspects of Eli's character and hopefully they will do just that. :) Oh, and you kinda hit home with that tongue comment so now I'll have to write this inner debate out of my system, just to convince myself I made the right choice. I agonized so much over that damn kissing scene. I typed it up, deleted it, then typed it up again like a zillion times and in a zillion different ways. It was building up so it had to happen but I wasn't sure how exactly it should happen. There was a considerable amount of physical attraction between them on the show (in my opinion), and, as far as I'm concerned, that goodbye smooch was never cut from the end of "Foreign Relations." So they are not total strangers on a first date here. There's already a certain kind of intimacy and familiarity established between them and if we add the sexual attraction, some alcohol, Eli's temperamental alpha-male personality and touch starvation, and, most importantly, Natalie's eagerness and encouragement, then a bold, combustive outcome seems more fitting than a modest one - despite it being their first "proper" date thing. Does that even make sense? I hope it does. :) Anyway, thanks again and yes, if you have some time, you should check out _Kings_. It really is an amazing show.**  
>Geiroidin<strong>: it is, right? :D Thank you! I'll do my best, I promise. :)**  
>Do<strong>: just stand there because I'm gonna hug you, okay? :) Thanks so much for your kind words! Hopefully, I can repay you with this new chapter. :)**  
>Lily Wang<strong>: thank you! So glad you enjoy it! There's more on the way. :)**  
>Nosferatu's-Cigarette-Binge<strong>: hate you? Quite the opposite. :) This is essentially a giant character study for Eli but it is presented mostly through his evolving relationship with Natalie, so you, as a non-shipper, saying you still love it makes me wanna do a victory jig in the copy room Eli-style. Obviously I love this pairing but I have no problem with those who don't and I would never ever hate you for something like that. Eli is a fascinating character on its own but I find that he becomes even more fascinating when he is around Natalie. She makes him squirm, she makes him go through a myriad of confusing, complex emotions and manages to unravel him in a way no one else does, and it was a real treat to watch it happening on the show. I just wanted to further explore that in writing. :) Huge thanks for giving this fic a try. I'm very glad you ended up enjoying it. And I checked the picture link, it's working fine for me. Maybe you forgot to replace the [DOT]'s with actual dots? If you still can't open it, just yell and I'll figure something out.

Thanks, guys, and everyone else who's still with us. And I wish you all the very best of holidays!

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><p><strong>~ MORNING ~<strong>

The BlackBerry is dancing a flash-y vibrating dance on the coffee table. He stirs as the phone stills and his eyes blink open. Something feels weird. Something _is_ weird. He squints. Everything is bright and blurry. He drags himself up into a sitting position and looks around, orienting himself between two yawns. The smell of fresh coffee is slowly drawing him towards clarity. The memories of the previous day begin to trickle back into his sluggish mind – first just small fragments, then bigger chunks. One in particular stands out, making him smile, then shake his head. "Oh dear god," he mumbles against the fingers he holds pressed against his lips, then runs a hand across his face, trying to erase warm embarrassment and sticky drowsiness. He glances around again. His tie, watch, and phone are on the small table by the couch. His shoes are on the floor nearby. He doesn't remember removing any of them himself so it must have been her. He looks at the blanket pooling around his waist – that was probably her too. He would have kicked himself out. She tucked him in.

He wasn't happy when they got interrupted last night. Now he feels mostly relieved and grateful for it. But he never should have sat down on this damn couch. He glances around again but doesn't see her anywhere. He groggily reaches for his watch and checks the time. It's almost 9. That can't be right. His eyes narrow. He blinks, trying to clear his vision. He checks his phone. It tells him the same – and that he has several missed calls which he ignores. He's slept almost 10 hours straight. No clock-staring, no crazy stress dreams. And that weird thing he feels is called being well-rested. It's like a lead helmet has been finally lifted from his head – or more like an entire suit of armor. But it doesn't last long. His phone goes off again.

He eyes it for a moment, sighs and decides to answer it. "Good morning, Frank."

"Is it? Where are you?"

Eli remains silent. The sudden and sinking feeling that there's something important he's forgotten takes a large bite out of his weightless bliss.

"Because I know where you are not."

Now he remembers. He was supposed to have breakfast with Mr. Fiedler and his soon-to-be-second wife about an hour ago. It completely slipped his mind.

"I'm sorry. I-"

But Frank brushes off his apology along with any excuse Eli might have. "I told them you weren't feeling well. They were disappointed but very understanding." Judging from Frank's tone he is anything but. "You're meeting his daughter today, right?"

Eli pinches the bridge of his nose, and the information slowly staggers to the surface of his mind. "Myra. Yes. For lunch." It's like a bizarre version of Happy Meal - instead of a toy, he gets a Fiedler.

"If it's not too inconvenient, please try to show up." With that, the chairman hangs up and Eli tosses the phone back on the table. The lead helmet is slipping back on. He's angry now but not with Frank. He screwed up, Frank just pointed it out – he is irritatingly good at that.

His life is becoming a double pendulum and he's struggling to adjust. He's already forgotten how to fit anything else into it besides work. Not that he was particularly good at that juggling act when he actually had something else in it other than his job. A bitter, lonely wife who cheated and a daughter he sometimes barely recognizes are proof enough of that. How badly will he scar Natalie? Or maybe the better question would be: how badly _this__ time_?

She watches him quietly from the bathroom door, her head resting against the frame. He runs a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair and she feels the stirring memory of that sensation on her fingertips. She feels attraction, curiosity, a vague and mostly puzzling fondness – the exact same combination that got her burnt the first time they met. The logical step would be to push him as far away as possible but logic doesn't get to drive this bus when Eli Gold is on board. It is going to be a bumpy ride and they might end up running off a cliff but she's increasingly willing to take that risk – not for the scheming campaign manager but for that awkwardly honest man who currently occupies her couch. Still, he is a package deal. She learned that the hard way but at least now she's more prepared.

He sighs as he lies back, the icy, jagged weight of missed calls, meetings, and the Franks and Fiedlers spilling off and around him on the warm cushions. His eyes close shut, his thoughts involuntarily drifting back to last night, to that blinding, burning, chaotic flash of desperate hunger, raw emotion, smudgy eagerness, and stirring softness. He really lost control for a few seconds. It was amazing, crazy, terrifying – a glass of water after years spent wandering alone in a desert. And he grasped at it greedily. Maybe a little too greedily.

His eyes open. Her face blinks into vision. She is leaning on the back of the couch now, head propped on a hand. She studies him with a kind, amused and mildly concerned look in her eyes – a special mixture reserved only for him. She doubts many can see him the way she does – so open, vulnerable, and messy. It makes it very hard not to like him. "Morning."

His lips stretch into a sheepish smile and he sits up, his face drifting closer to hers. "Morning."

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, barely containing a grin.

"I did."

She nods. "Yeah, I thought so."

Her unabated amusement makes him feel somewhat self-conscious. "Was I snoring?"

"No," she says with the beginnings of laughter in her voice. "You were drooling."

Oh terrific. "Well, that must have been _very_ attractive."

She laughs – his most recent favorite sound. She is happy. He is embarrassed. "I'm sorry I fell asleep."

"It's okay," she says, her laughter retreating into a kind smile, which fades, too, when he doesn't return it. Something else is clearly bothering him.

"And I'm sorry... about last night. I think I got carried away a bit."

She briefly glances away to study her nails. He looks at them too. He can still feel them tracing their way across the back of his neck and his heart rate quickens. Then her voice yanks him back to the present. "Well, I think we both did," she says a bit flustered, then looks back at him with a playful smile. "Although I'm not _that_ sorry." She truly isn't but his concern is endearing. Most guys would simply feel lucky, encouraged, eager to take the next step. He beats himself up. He assesses. He frets. He's careful. He's attentive. And sometimes he's the polar opposite. He isn't like the guys she normally dates. He isn't like anyone else she knows, really, and it certainly adds to the allure of a possible deeper relationship with him.

What happened made two things clear for her. One: they have to control themselves better; and two: should they manage that and should a serious relationship evolve between them, one important department will probably receive few, if any, customer service complaints.

He desperately wants to believe her but he is a worrier by nature. The second he realizes he's genuinely happy he panics that there's something he's missing or forgotten or ignored; that something bad is going to happen. "I just don't want you to think that... you know." She stares at him. She isn't quite sure what he's getting at. He isn't, either, but tries to explain it anyway. "It's been a while since I… I don't usually… I didn't…" He gives up, averting his eyes. "God, this is painful." Why can't he talk to her like a normal person? It's so frustrating and embarrassing, pathetic and suffocating. He's not used to caring how others see him or think of him. But her opinion matters. It matters a lot, and he's trying so hard not to screw this up. Maybe that's the problem.

She sees he's struggling and tries to help. "I am a big girl, Eli, okay?" He doesn't look at her. He stares at the blanket, then swallows and nods. "If you do something I don't like or want, I'll let you know. Loud and clear."

He chews on the side of his mouth as he digests her words, then looks back up at her. "Are you a black belt too?"

"No," she says, then tilts her head, slowly seizing him up. "But I think I could take you."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" He feels his rather substantial competitive streak acting up a bit but resist the immature urge to actually grab her and pull her down with him on the couch. It would be fun but probably not the innocent kind, and after what happened last night he really should try for a more cautious approach.

She gazes down at him, pondering. He gazes back silently, unsure what to say or do next. And for the first time it doesn't fill him with panic. She slowly leans down and kisses him, her lips gently brushing against the roughness of his chapped ones. It is another experiment. A cautious reassurance. It isn't a spontaneous move, just a mutually desired one. It is still ushered in by a certain amount of doubt and reciprocated with a tinge of hesitance. This level of intimacy is pleasant but still somewhat alien. They are still figuring each other out. They think too much. They are not in rhythm – that comes with time and practice and trust. Right now all they really have is insecure hope and a growing willingness to act on it, and that's enough.

She pulls back. A smile completes the glint in his eyes and she feels her heartbeat quicken again. It feels right. He's not a safe choice but he feels right.

But yet another call shatters the moment. His head reluctantly turns toward his phone on the table.

"You seem to be very in-demand today," she remarks with a smile.

"Yeah," he agrees, eyeing the phone. With a sigh he lifts it from the table and stares at the caller ID. He's hesitating. From the corner of his eye he can see her moving away towards the kitchen. He hopes she doesn't think he was waiting for her to do that. He keeps staring at the caller's name. It's Kalinda. He really wants to pick up but he doesn't. He lets it go to voicemail.

Natalie moves around the kitchen on autopilot, going through the morning motions. But she steals glances at him. He finally gets up and stretches. She hears the cracking of his spine and her brows crinkle. Then comes a faint moan of satisfaction and she grins.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asks when she sees his scruffy, yawning form approaching. He really looks like he needs a cup. Or two. And a comb.

"Oh, yes, please," he says, lowering himself onto the same chair he squirmed on yesterday after she'd called him out on his suspicious ways of navigating the capital. She puts a steaming mug in front of him. It says, "Instant human, just add coffee." He reads it, then smiles. First the t-shirt, now the mug. Is this some sort of semi-veiled commentary? He isn't sure but if she hands him one more of these expressive items, he will have to ask.

"So…" he starts after a few silent moments, drawing circles in the coffee with his spoon. "How's your father doing?"

"Great. He really can't wait to be a grandfather." She chuckles and his hand freezes.

"Really?" he says with forced nonchalance. He is drawing a blank here.

"My sister's pregnant, remember? I told you."

Indeed she did. Last night. Now it's starting to come back. "Yes. … Nydia, right?"

"That's my grandmother."

Apparently, he needs that coffee more than he thought. "The one with the crazy eye?"

"No. That's my aunt, Nirma."

"Okay," he nods, trying to commit the names and their corresponding attributes into his memory. Hopefully this time they stick. She watches him, grinning. He looks a bit confused. And maybe a little adorable.

"So your sister is…"

"Ema."

"Ema. Right." He nods again. "And she's the pregnant one."

"Yup. Very. They thought last night was _the_ night but it was a false alarm. Again."

That explains Mr. Flores' loud enthusiasm he heard pouring from the phone. He smiles, then sinks into silence and continues fiddling with his spoon.

She watches him and the question just slips out. "And who's Myra?"

He looks up at her a bit surprised but answers anyway. "She's a client." He seems to consider his own answer for a moment, then adds a bit confused, "I think."

She chuckles. "You don't know?"

"I'm not sure." He takes a cautious sip. "I mean, I still don't know why she wants to hire me. But I know she's an avid community activist, so I'm bracing myself."

Her eyes narrow. "Myra Fiedler hired you?"

"You know her?"

"No," she chuckles again. "I just read an article on her the other day. She is quite impressive. She just received a Civic Leadership Award, I think."

"Yeah. She's working on an urban education initiative back in Chicago – among other things. _Many_ things, actually. She also enjoys music, painting, mountain climbing, and has a dog named George." She stares at him and he raises his eyebrows at her. "What? I can google too," he adds with a smile and takes another sip from his coffee.

Natalie stares into hers. "She sounds kinda perfect."

When she glances up, he smiles at her – it's a confident, slightly devilish smile. "Well, show me a saint, I'll dig up the skeletons," he says, then drains his mug.

She does not doubt him for a second.


	9. Fools

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><strong>Do<strong>: thanks so much. I'm very happy you like the style and the pace. Yes, I'm still putting down the groundwork for future twists and turns, and I can only hope it will pay off. :)

**Rachel**: thank you! Seriously. Reading your words is like mainlining self-confidence. I no longer have a lot of free time but I'm not gonna give up writing this, I can promise that. It's way too much fun and you guys make it extra rewarding. This fic started out as a one-shot, TBH, and then it kinda got out of control. That's why I'm a bit wary of starting another "one-shot" but who knows. If a good idea strikes, I might just give it a try. :)

**schristine**: hi there! Pleased, seriously pleased, to hear you are turning into one of us. It's one of the biggest compliments a 'ship writer can get, so THANKS A MILLION! ;)

**KrinWashu**: oh you. Consider me throughly spoiled and very grateful. I have massive inner debates about the smallest of details, really (I'm anal like that), so it's always a relief to find others who agree with you or, at the very least, consider your interpretation possible and not utterly ridiculous. So thanks heaps for that. What can I offer in return? No, I don't have a picture of that mug right now. Maybe next time I'll drop a link. ;) But below there's a new chapter, hope that's a start. :D And yes, Marissa is going to make an appearance (and not just as a phone call), along with other familiar faces from the show but I don't want to ruin the surprise. I'm glad to hear you are patient. I will need you to be. ;)

p.s. The "painful" remark was said out loud but he probably didn't even realize it. He is struggling mightily to put his clusterf**k of emotions into words and he's failing miserably. It's painful. It's one level above "difficult." I guess. I'm very definitive, I know. :)

**Nat**: my dear addict, here's your fix. I hope you like it. :)

**information specialist**: thanks so much! I'm very glad you found this and grateful for the kind words. I hope you'll enjoy the rest of it as well. :)

**Patamar2**: hello, fellow fan. Yes, there's more below and even more is coming. :) Thank you and enjoy!

**Tristelle**: no, thank _you_ for dropping me a line and I hope you like the update. :)

**Em**: thank you! It is finally updated! I hope it was worth all that obsessive checking. :)

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><p><strong>~ FOOLS ~<strong>

He's nibbling on a piece of toast Natalie pushed in front of him on a plate. He didn't want to appear to be rude and this way he also got his empty mug refilled. She remarked how he looked somewhat thinner and he informed her of his steady diet of Chinese take-out, coffee, and stress. He was trying to be funny. Clearly, it did not work out too well. Then somebody knocked and this time she was eager to answer the door herself. She practically pushed him back on the chair. He can faintly hear her talking to somebody just outside the apartment as he scrolls through the latest news on his phone. He licks the crumbs off his fingers and reaches for his mug. The front door soon closes and Natalie reappears just as he's about to finish off his coffee.

"Is everything okay?" he asks and puts his phone down to give her his full attention.

"Yeah. It was just Mrs. Green."

He is not even surprised. "Was she checking up on you?"

She puts a small bunch of keys in a giant ashtray on the counter and fixes him with a teasing look. "Well, could you blame her if she were?"

Holding the mug to his lips, he seems to be weighing the question. "I guess…" He glances at her, clearly fishing for the right answer. "… not?"

She chuckles. "She just asked me to feed her cat."

"Is she going somewhere?" He's trying not to sound too cheery. Trying and probably failing if that half disapproving, half amused expression on her face is anything to go by.

"Yes. For a few days. Didn't say where, though." And that makes her slightly concerned.

He doesn't really care. She is leaving, that's what matters. He simply nods and finishes his coffee with a smile. The BlackBerry soon buzzes with a message. He reads it with furrowed brows, then stands slowly, pocketing the phone. Lips slightly pursed, his eyes are fixed on an abstract point, unblinking, unseeing. She is already familiar with this face.

"Do you have to go?" she asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Yes. … Yes, I still have some… 'googling' to do before lunch," he answers with a weak smile. She doesn't ask what exactly he means by that and he goes to collect his belongings. "I should probably let you get ready for work," he says as he slips on the tie.

"Actually, I'm staying home today," she admits, clearing off the counter. His plate and mug land in the sink.

"You are?"

She wanders back to the counter. "Yup." She leans on it and watches him. "I wasn't feeling well yesterday, so they sent me home and insisted I rest up."

He straps on his watch, mulling this over with a suggestion of a grin on his face. So that's how she got away earlier. "It must be contagious," he concludes, grabbing his suit jacket. He shrugs it on.

"You too?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

"Oh yes. In fact, I had to skip a meeting this morning," he says, finally unleashing that grin as he tugs at the collar of his jacket.

"I see." She grins back. "Well, let's hope it's nothing serious."

He looks at her and his gaze lingers. She holds his stare but doesn't quite know what to make of that strange, almost sad glint in his eyes. It quickly vanishes and he clears his throat. "Yes. Well… I just got a very nice 'get well soon' message from the DCC, so…" He trails off when he sees her nod.

She understands. He buttons his jacket, then carefully runs his palms along its sleeves to smooth out some, to her eyes invisible, wrinkles. It looks like a well-practiced routine with mild OCD undertones. She doesn't know how he managed it but his clothes don't look slept in at all. When he looks up, he finds her smiling at him once again. "What?"

She shakes her head – it's nothing. He raises his eyebrows – it's something and he wants to know. She gives in - partially. "Most guys only do the top button." He glances at his completely buttoned-up jacket, then back at her.

"I'm a rebel," he declares with a straight face but a smile quickly cracks the surface of that 'buttoned-in' seriousness and she laughs. Finding him fast asleep on her couch was, in a way, daunting. She wasn't sure how to be around him for such an extended period of time despite the fact that he'd be unconscious for most of it. Now she finds it surprisingly difficult to let him go. But she has to and soon they find themselves at the front door saying goodbye again.

It is difficult as it is but now he has Mrs. Green in his peripheral vision. She is dragging two suitcases across the corridor towards the elevator at a suspiciously slow pace. They glance at her. Natalie waves and the old lady smiles sweetly. When Eli greets her, all he receives is a solemn nod. At least she acknowledges his existence. She doesn't look too thrilled about it, though.

"She hates me," he concludes with a frown as he turns back to Natalie. He doesn't know why it even bothers him, which only irritates him further.

"No, she doesn't." He looks at her and sees certainty in her eyes – it's bronze-colored and warm. He, in turn, stares at her with cold, sharp doubt. "She's just…" His eyebrows go up, challenging her to put a better spin on the old lady's behavior. "She's looking out for me."

He considers her words. The eyebrows go down and he nods. She's probably right. He's making this about himself when it's really about her. It's a big city. She's a newcomer and way too trusting, which makes her vulnerable. She should have someone like Mrs. Green in her corner, someone who genuinely cares, protects and gives advice without seeking anything in return – other than the occasional catsitting, that is.

They regard each other silently. Slowly, he starts leaning forward but flinches back when one of Mrs. Green's suitcases makes a violent contact with the floor. He smiles sheepishly at Natalie, maintaining the polite distance that was quickly regained by the loud echo of the dropped suitcase. "Thank you for the… bed and breakfast."

"You're very welcome."

He doesn't move. Anticipation and hesitation mix with their nodding and smiling. He licks his lips, then steals a quick sidelong glance at the intruding old lady who's further down the hall, waiting for the elevator. She stands with her back to them but he's sure she still sees everything. Natalie notes his concern and has a quick remedy. She takes his hand and backs up into the apartment – just far enough to get some privacy. Still moving, he leans in once again and she grabs him by the lapels, wanting, encouraging, pulling him closer. He matches her enthusiasm with his own as his lips crash against hers. But the moment soon gets disrupted when she stumbles over a shoe and loses her balance, pulling him with her. They unceremoniously tumble against the bombe chest but he manages to support himself and avoid mashing her into it. Her head is buried in his jacket now and she starts laughing – it is muffled and warm against his chest. He smiles into her hair, then leans back a little to look at her. "Are you okay?"

She lifts her head and her laughter quiets down under his gaze. Still grabbing two fistful of fine Versace suit, she nods. "Yeah." Her voice is quiet, embarrassed, and smiling. She is one happy fool. He knows exactly how that feels because he is one, too.

He pushes a lock of hair off her brow, his fingertips leaving a cool, pleasant trace on her skin. Her arms slide up and around his neck. Her fingers fiddle with his hair at his nape, setting his nerve endings on fire, provoking a shiver. He presses a small, soft kiss on her cheek. Then another one lands on the corner of her mouth. And a third, longer one is planted on her lips. It takes a considerable amount of will power to stop there but he succeeds and pulls away.

"A slower pace does suit us better," she remarks, tasting coffee and him on her lips.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, smiling.

Her hands slide down from around his neck, releasing him. "You have my number now, so you can call," she reminds him.

"I will," he promises.

* * *

><p>He steps outside and halts briefly. To his left there's the elevator and the old lady with two heavy-looking suitcases. To his right there's the door to the staircase. He wants to take the stairs. He really does. He promised himself he would. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes – mostly at himself –, and starts toward the elevator. Diane is always nagging him about not being friendly and not fostering relationships. She's right, of course, but those are not exactly his strong suit. Maybe he could practice on Mrs. Green and turn what he initially considered an obstacle into an ally. Right now it seems about as easy as turning water into wine but he does love a challenge.<p>

He doesn't know it but he's already made the first step toward achieving his ambitious goal by simply choosing to go left. She was waiting to see which way he'd go and now he's here, standing beside her. He offers a little smile when she glances up. She doesn't return it. He didn't expect her to. She's pleased he didn't chicken out but careful not to show it.

The elevator arrives.

"You need a hand?" he asks before stepping in. There. He's being polite, too.

"Thank you." She gets in, leaving both suitcases for him to carry. He only hesitates for a second, then grabs and lifts them up – a little too fast. They are not just heavy-looking. They _are_ heavy as if they contained her entire apartment, including the piano. Maybe they are bigger on the inside. He struggles but his male pride doesn't permit him to show any outward signs. He straightens up, his back and shoulders protesting against the weight, and steps in. He might have pulled a muscle because even standing still is really unpleasant now. But he endures it silently, his teeth clenched.

She looks up at him as the doors close and sees him grimacing. "Back pains?" she asks.

"Something like that."

"Maybe you should reconsider your sleeping arrangements." Her tone is casual but her words are biting.

He rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's reconsidering a lot of things right now but after a few quiet seconds he manages to swallow his anger. He is, after all, learning to be friendly. He could say anything to her, he could swear to his heart's content, and she wouldn't hear a thing. _No._ He remains silent and contends himself with chewing on the inside of his lip. Soon the doors open and she walks out. He is trying to keep up but it is rather difficult with those suitcases and all those people he has to maneuver around. He is panting when he finally catches up to her outside the building. No wonder this isn't his usual modus operandi. Being nice is very exhausting.

"Thomas, please put these in the trunk," she says and that's when Eli realizes that the sharply dressed young chauffeur and that shiny black Lincoln Town Car are waiting for her. He is finally relieved of his heavy burden and the almost equally heavy prospect of sharing a taxi with her.

"Thank you, Mr. Gold." Her words vaporize in the icy air and drift away as she pulls on a pair of elegant leather gloves. It's a chilly, windy morning.

He nods, vaguely and strangely pleased that she said his name without any contemptuous undertone. A small victory, perhaps. Maybe she's learning to be friendly too. Maybe it is as difficult for her as it is for him. That possibility hasn't occurred to him until now. He shivers and her guarded expression turns scolding for a brief moment.

"Oh put on that coat for Pete's sake before you catch your death in this ghastly weather."

He does as he's told, taking the overcoat nestled in the crook of his arm and donning it quickly. "Careful, ma'am. You sound like you almost care," he says, teasing.

"I don't wish you ill, Mr. Gold," she says as she tugs at her coat sleeves, adjusting them properly.

They stare at each other and he believes her. "No, you don't." He averts his eyes to glance at his shoes, deciding how to broach another, related topic. He chooses to be bold and looks her in the eye once again, making sure she understands every word. "You just wish me away."

She tilts her head slightly, observing him for a moment. "Well… the jury is still out on that one." With that, she turns and the chauffeur dutifully opens the door for her. Before getting in, she turns her head. "You know, I don't like most people." He studies her profile, then her gaze finds him once again. "But I like Natalie." She doesn't say more, she doesn't have to. She's just trying to protect Natalie. He understands and nods – a gesture of unspoken acknowledgement not of submission. She gets in the car and delivers a parting jab: "Behave yourself while I'm away."

He opens his mouth but the car door slams shut before he can say anything. Perhaps it's for the best. The Lincoln smoothly pulls away from the curb and his gaze follows it. A small smile begins to break through and he no longer resists it.

He might just have stumbled upon a kindred soul.


	10. Silence

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p>[<em>an - #1_]

**aprilf00l**: thank you. So glad you're still here and enjoy the story. The pace picks up a bit in this chapter but the teasing most definitely remains - it's kind of a must for me at this point. ;)

**Em**: thank you so much, as always. :)

**Nimeton**: thank _you_ for being so nice and patient, and for leaving me this wonderful review. I know you guys have to wait a lot between updates and it sucks for me, too, but I have very limited free time these days. I'll try to be quicker with the next chapter, I promise. :)

**Anon**: first off, you are quite excellent at reviewing. :D Second: thank you very, very much. The relationship dynamic you described is exactly what I'm aiming for but sometimes it's difficult to nail it down because there's just so much we don't know about Natalie, so I have to work with a lot of headcanon here. I, too, hope that one day she returns to the show. She kinda has to, right? :) Maybe next season if the gods of scheduling allow it. *crosses fingers*

**Rachel**: thanks a million, as usual. And let me give you a giant hug, too, because I totally agree: the Eli/Stacie thing is excruciating. And _not_ because Eli is with someone other than Natalie. I don't have a problem with that. I was actually looking forward to seeing him have some _fun_ but it was a slap in the face, tbh. They have no chemistry, their scenes are terribly written, and I can't stand Stacie. But I may write her into this story to exact my revenge. *evil cackle* And yes, Vanessa will appear, too. ;)

**dawn444**: wow! You are all kinds of awesome, you know that? Seriously. Thank you so much and welcome back to the loop! :)

**Member**: thanks heaps for leaving me that amazing review-chain. I read it with a giant grin on my face. I truly appreciate every word. I promise I will not abandon the story. I couldn't, really. It's way too much fun. :)

**KrinWashu**: I know the wait between two chapters is getting longer but it's just my lack of time, I swear. I love writing it and will not drop it, I promise. Thank you once again for your wonderful comments and that Pee-wee reference because it is perfection and totally made my day. :D As to the ending, yes. I am building/working towards a specific end, and I already have most of the major stepping stones figured out. Everything else is in an almost constant flux, though. But I hope this eases your mind a bit. :) Other cameos? Well, I already mentioned Vanessa above but Diane will definitely make an appearance as well. And that's all I'm willing to divulge for now. ;)

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><p>[<em>an - #2_]: don't hate me too much when you reach the end of this chapter, okay? :)

[_a/n - #3_]: once again I just want to thank _everyone_ who still reads and enjoys the story. I never thought it would generate such traffic as it does. Thank you, guys!

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><p><strong>~ SILENCE ~<strong>

His eyes are still fixed on the receding redness of the Lincoln's tail lights but soon the traffic shifts and his view gets cut off. His phone starts ringing and he pulls it from his pocket. It's Kalinda.

"I was just thinking about you," he says, pressing the BlackBerry to his ear.

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

He chuckles quietly. "And I hope you have only good things to say."

"You mean bad things?"

He breathes a satisfied little sigh. "You know, I just love that we speak the same language."

"Yeah. I'm afraid there isn't much to say, though. Nothing concrete. I've checked and on paper your Mr. Thomas seems like an upstanding citizen. No complaints, no scandals, no criminal record, healthy financials."

Hearing this angers him more than anything. "Oh, let me guess. He feeds the homeless and reads to blind kids as well."

"Actually, he does contribute to several charity funds and-"

His temper flares. "And in his spare time he walks on water. Yes, I get it, Kalinda. Thank you." He takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least some semblance of self-control. The mere possibility of this other guy being somehow more deserving of Natalie unsettles and infuriates him. _There are no saints._ The wind is picking up, its bitter coldness stinging and punishing, but he doesn't move. He doesn't speak, either.

Sometimes certain things are just too heavy for words. Silence can carry anything. Fear. Rage. Grief. Love. Gratitude. Shame. The inexpressible. The difficult. The deepest, most complex of emotions or a few simple words which, for some reason, often feel so impossible to utter. It is all there, hidden in plain sight, in thousands of quiet moments. But silence requires an accomplished translator – a keen ear and a willingness to listen.

And she hears the apology in his wordlessness.

"What's going on, Eli?" He finds the thick, quasi-detached evenness of her tone oddly soothing. She is always so focused, so pulled together, yet never closed-off. He envies and respects that strength. It might forever remain an unvoiced admiration but he hopes she still knows somehow. She strikes him as someone who would. "Eli?"

"It's nothing," he answers, his voice quiet now, his anger smoldering, his lie obvious.

Of course it's not nothing but for now she decides to leave it at that. "Like I said, he looks perfect _on paper_. But records can be easily lost or altered." She pauses and hears him sigh. It prompts her to add, "Or maybe he's just careful."

This grabs his attention. She was sort of worried it would. "What do you mean?"

Kalinda hesitates for a moment, trying to decide which is less likely to land him in trouble: sharing the information that is flimsy at best, or withholding it. Reluctantly, she opts for the former. "Well, a friend of a friend at the D.C. Police Department told me that Mr. Thomas is quite the party boy and has been keeping questionable company lately."

"Is he under police surveillance?"

"No. But some of his more recent acquaintances are and their records are not so spotless."

"Okay." There's a short pause followed by a question she isn't particularly keen on answering. "And who are these 'acquaintances'?" She doesn't say immediately and he feels the anger swelling up again. "Kalinda."

"Rumor is they are members of La Familia."

His eyes close shut as he hears the name. Peter had some pretty nasty cases involving them during his first term as State's Attorney. A desperate laugh escapes him. This whole thing is absurd. "Are you telling me that Prince Charming is cozying up to drug dealers?"

She isn't laughing. "No. I'm telling you that it's a possibility. They are expanding their influence over D.C., looking for a fresh client base."

"Well, it's a tough economy. I imagine even drug cartels need to revitalize."

"This is serious, Eli."

"I know." He wanted to get some dirt on the guy but this is a potential hornet's nest. He sighs. "Anything else?"

She watches absently as the busy employees of Lockhart/Gardner move about. "Well, there's only so much I can dig up from here. I am more effective up close."

He smiles. She must be bored. Her semi-veiled offer is tempting but there's a lot he needs to consider first. "I'll think about it."

"All right." There's silence on both ends again – his signals gratitude, hers a growing concern. She has a bad feeling and hesitates to end the call. He's listening, waiting for her to say something but she is silent. Is she waiting for him to say something? He draws his eyebrows together. She's being weird again and he finds that unsettling. "Kalinda?"

Her gaze drifts to the empty yellow of his office chair. "Be careful," she says at last and just for those two short seconds, for those two simple words, her voice sheds from its detached quality. This is what friendship sounds like.

And it throws him. He finds himself trying to frown and smile at the same time. He ends up swallowing instead. "You know me."

He is a bold man but if he's driven by what she suspects he is, that boldness can easily turn into recklessness and that is rarely an advantage. "Exactly," she replies, her voice already back to normal – even, smooth, maybe a tinge provoking.

He chuckles, then glances at the taxi pulling up to the curb. "I gotta go now."

"Then go."

He hangs up and she pockets her phone with a shadow of a smile on her face. Her life is a little bit more colorful with Gold in it. And she likes colorful.

* * *

><p>He enters the restaurant and spots his client wannabe immediately. It's not that difficult since she's the only one there reading an actual newspaper. She seems completely engrossed in it but as he approaches, her focus shifts to him. Her face lights up and she lowers the paper into her lap.<p>

"Mr. Gold."

He reaches her table but doesn't sit – not just yet. "Ms. Fiedler."

She glances at her watch. "How very punctual of you." It sounds more like a tease than a statement, and there's that strange look in her eyes again. It still makes him somewhat uncomfortable. And increasingly curious.

His gaze drifts to the floor and a tiny smile curves his lips. She regards him, trying to reconcile this boyish quality with the tough campaign veteran. She can't, really, and it only intrigues her further. "You're trying really hard to make up for this morning, aren't you?"

He glances back at her, now smooth and calculated. "Am I that transparent?"

She laughs and it rings true to his ear. "Please sit," she says, gesturing at the empty chair opposite hers. First meetings with high-profile clients are difficult, tricky, and tiring performances – they need to be carefully choreographed and delicately executed. He puts a lot of effort into them but something tells him this one is going to be especially challenging.

As he lowers himself onto the chair, she signals to a waiter nearby who nods, then gracefully glides away. When Eli looks back at her, he finds that mildly inquisitorial gaze fixed on him once again. "I hope you're feeling better."

He hesitates for a moment, deciding how to play this, and surprises himself when all of a sudden blunt honesty tumbles from his mouth. "I wasn't sick," he admits simply with an apologetic smile, then gingerly shifts in his seat. His back still hurts a bit after lifting those damned suitcases in a random act of experimental kindness. The slightly amused expression on Myra Fiedler's face suggests she has an entirely different idea about what's behind the skipped breakfast meeting and the sore muscles.

"Well, in that case, dinner must have been a great success," she remarks. He opens his mouth, then, not knowing how to respond properly, he averts his eyes. This is getting awkward for him but thankfully she is quick to backpedal. "I'm so sorry. It's none of my business."

Indeed not. He looks back at her, agreeing silently – _politely_ –, hoping this puts an end to this particular subject. It does.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks, trying to steer the conversation back to a neutral path.

His eyes flicker at the glass of water already on the table in front of him. "Water is fine, thank you."

"Then let's get down to _our_ business, shall we?"

He smiles politely. "Let's." He's usually the one doing the pitching, not the client, so he feels especially eager today.

"So… how would you like to save some lives, Mr. Gold?"

She's pitching all right, and that's a curveball. His eyebrows go up. He isn't sure he heard her right. "I'm sorry?"

"There's this shelter nearby. My father helped build it. I help run it. And we are running out of money."

He's staring at her silently, struggling to see how he could be of any help. Bailing out failing businesses is not his area of expertise, never was, and she knows that. Yet she's looking at him with such hopeful and expectant eyes. The least he can do is make sure he knows exactly what he says no to. "Are we talking about a women's or a homeless shelter?" She bites her lip, looking slightly sheepish, and his confusion grows. "Or… or neither? What kind of shelter is this?"

"An animal shelter."

_Wonderful._

"More specifically a pit bull shelter. The largest in the district area."

Strays. With bad reputation. He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, wondering briefly if this is a set-up. Mrs. Green would probably pay good money to see him right now.

"I know what you think…"

He looks back at her with a smile. "I sincerely doubt that."

"These are amazing dogs, Mr. Gold, not more dangerous than any other, but they are the least likely to be adopted these days. Our founding has run out and if this shelter shuts down, most of them won't make it out alive."

"Can't your father help?"

She shakes her head and smiles. "This place is…" she trails off, searching for the right words. "This place is not about profit. I love my father and he loves me but he is a businessman and…"

"And love goes only so far when there's a money pit involved, right?" he finishes for her.

She snorts. "More like a fiscal black hole, but yes." It's his turn to study her and she lets him. She isn't uncomfortable. Head tilted, lips slightly pursed he watches intently but soon she breaks their silence. "He's already given so much but, as broke as we are, money isn't even the biggest issue here. These dogs are misrepresented and the recent breed specific legislations didn't exactly help. They have an image problem, and…" she trails off again and gestures toward him. "This is where you come in."

He smiles and nods. "Why me?"

"Because you're an image consultant, one of the best."

He shakes his head, brushing off what he assumes to be a clumsy attempt to appeal to his professional vanity, then leans closer and the smile fades a bit. "No."

She looks at him with an expression he can't quite read. "You're not one of the best?" she asks as innocently as possible. Maybe she's just baiting his ego to see if it bites. Well, today it does not, and he sidesteps the question.

"That's not why you're asking me." He knows that one thing for sure.

She sighs. "Why does it matter?"

It seems he's finally managed to ruffle her feathers a bit and it feels immensely satisfying. He leans back, never breaking eye contact. "I just like to see things clearly, that's all."

She regards him quietly and appears to be weighing her options. For a brief second she looks like someone who's on the verge of confessing something that's immensely difficult to put into words, then: "Everybody else turned me down."

He purses his lips – not quite the confession her brief yet intense inner struggle suggested but he works with what he is given. "What makes you think I won't?"

"You said yes to Peter Florrick when no one would. When he was nothing more than toxic waste."

He reaches for his water. "And what a smooth sailing that has been."

"You could have jumped ship a long time ago. Many would have."

He takes a sip but remains silent. She doesn't. "I heard how you talked about him yesterday. You're sticking with him for the same reason you chose to help him in the first place."

"And what reason is that?"

"You believe it's the right thing to do. You think he's a good man."

"He is." A little skepticism flickers across her features so he adds, "Good. Not perfect."

Her face softens. "Just admit it, Mr. Gold."

He arches an eyebrow and puts down the glass. "Admit what, Ms. Fiedler?"

"You'd like to make this world a better place, and you're willing to go the extra mile."

He shakes his head and smiles. He's racked up considerable mileage during his association with Peter, that's true, but most of those trips were made deep into Morally Gray Land and there's only one detour he feels truly ashamed about – even though the young woman whom he practically evicted from her life as a result has already forgiven him and more. She's given so much more than her forgiveness – so much he craves but doesn't deserve yet takes anyway because it drowns out the metallic voice of that jaded cynic inside his head. Can a selfish man with so much guilt ever be considered 'good'?

His glances to his lunch partner, eyes searching for an answer to a question never asked, and she offers him one.

"You, sir, are a closet idealist," she says and quickly runs her eyes over him. "Shrouded in an expertly tailored power suit." When he doesn't immediately react, she adds mock-conspiratorially, "For strategic purposes, of course."

He stares at her in silence for a moment, then bursts out laughing. He's been called many things before but this is something new. He can't decide if it's a compliment or an insult, the actual truth or just an idealized version of it. He doesn't have time to ponder it further because their waiter finally arrives. Eli can't quite tell what's heaped on the plate in front of him but at the very least it smells good.

"So, what do you say?" she asks, drawing his attention back to her.

He glances at his glass. "I think I'm gonna need something stronger."

* * *

><p>"A dog shelter?" Frank asks and starts laughing again. He hasn't been able to stop for several minutes.<p>

Eli stares at him with an icy little smile. "I'm glad you find this so amusing." They should have done this over the phone. It would have been much quicker and less taxing than this tête-à-tête in the busy lounge bar of the hotel. He checks his phone and frowns: no new messages, no calls, nothing.

Frank's laughter is quieting down and he pats Eli on the shoulder with such vehemence that the phone almost slips from the campaign strategist's hand. "I'm sorry," the chairman says and takes a sip from his drink.

"I haven't said yes," Eli adds a tad defensively. He knows it's a weak argument but he doesn't like being laughed at.

"You haven't said no, either," Frank counters, then gets a bit more serious. "Look, Eli, I get it."

Eli's eyes narrow. He doesn't like where this is heading. "Get what?"

Frank looks at him and smiles - not a good sign. "You like her and I can't blame you. She likes you too."

"I don't-" Eli starts but Frank cuts him off.

"You just wanna be nice, make a good impression." Eli shakes his head vigorously, his lips already forming a mute and very definitive 'no' but Frank doesn't seem to care or notice. "It's okay. Good for you, good for her, good for us. Am I right?"

Eli bites back a remark and drifts into silence, which Frank mistakes for agreement. It couldn't be further from the truth but it seems the chairman has already made up his mind and Eli suspects that any further argument or protest would probably only deepen his conviction. He glances at his phone again.

"Is something wrong?" Frank asks without looking at him.

"Hmm?"

"You keep checking your phone."

"Force of habit." And a lie. He had a missed call from Natalie earlier. He tried to call her back several times but always got her voicemail instead. He finally left an awkward message but it's been almost two hours since then. He's getting worried. It's probably just residual paranoia from his morning chat with Kalinda but he can't seem to shake it.

Frank swings down the rest of his drink and checks his watch. "Well, this has been nice, Eli, but I'm afraid I have to go," he says, rising to his feet. "See you tomorrow, _top dog_."

Eli nods with forced casualness and a strained smile. He waits until the chairman disappears, then bolts from his chair.

* * *

><p>His taxi is approaching her building. An ambulance and several police cars are already pulled up at the curb, blue and red lights still flashing silently under the numb gray sky. The icy claws of raw panic grip and twist his insides and he reflexively reaches for his phone. Cold fingers dial the number she gave him. It's ringing.<p>

One.

He can't remember the last time he prayed.

Two.

Holding the phone to his ear, he tosses the driver some bills from his coat pocket. It's too much but he doesn't care. He doesn't even hear the driver. He just wants to get out.

Three.

He reaches to unbuckle the safety belt and realizes he never buckled it.

Four.

He gets out and starts walking. There's a faint drizzle. And people – a murmuring mass of human curiosity with nothing to see and too much to assume.

Five.

His gaze searches for a face. For her. She's not there but she's fine. She has to be because he can't deal with the alternative – its horrible image is already circling the perimeter of his consciousness like some vicious creature ready to pounce.

Six.

As he gets closer he hears it faintly – a familiar sound. Her ringtone. He recognizes it from last night. He gets her voicemail again and quickly re-dials. Heart pounding, ears strained, eyes darting around, he's trying to locate the source of that faint thread of hope. He has a keen hearing but there's just so much noise – police radios, people, traffic, his own blood rushing in his ears – everything's pulsing with a wet and mute mixture of red and blue.

It takes a few seconds – an eternity – but his ears eventually lead him to the phone. It's in apurse in a trashcan near the entrance. Hers. Slick panic wraps around him like a heavy, numbing blanket but he shakes it off, grabs the purse and starts walking. Faster and faster, through the entrance, across the lobby, straight towards the stairs. He climbs them three at a time. His brisk steps and ragged breaths echo through the stairwell but all he hears is the violent pounding of his heart.

He reaches the fourth floor and dashes into the hallway, his eyes frantically searching for her door.

It's open.

_No._

A uniformed officer emerges from the apartment – _her_ apartment – and walks away in the opposite direction. He's followed by a crime scene technician carrying something large in an evidence bag. It looks like a baseball bat and the bag sticks to its tip. It's smeared with messy red.

_Please don't…_

Eli slows to a stop, heaving and reeling and begging without words. To God. To anyone who might be listening. Anyone who can hear what he can't say. _Please._ He runs a slightly shaky hand through his hair, then forces himself to move. He starts walking, dread and purpose dragging and pushing him along the hallway closer and closer to the door.

Her door.

_Please._


	11. Control

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><em>an_: Yes, it's me! I'm back, people! Again I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus but life happened and then my muse decided to take an early holiday. Fortunately, it returned well-rested and full of new ideas so yay! I hope you're all well. Thank you for your patience and never-ceasing awesomeness!

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><p><strong>tear of the sun girl<strong>: thanks so much! Yes, I also hope Natalie comes back on the show in the (not so distant) future. Alan and America have really, really great chemistry and their scenes still make me swoon like crazy. :) And I would be honored to tide you over until this happens. ;)

**KellyD**: I love your hatred. With all my heart. :)

**Rachel**: don't feel guilty for liking Eli/Vanessa. They are awesome and their wonderfully messy relationship is a goldmine (no pun intended)! I loved their scenes so much and I can't wait to include her in this fic (well, it's a mixture of dread and excitement, really). And I will definitely keep the Eli/Kalinda friendship going, too, because they make such a great team. As always, thanks heaps for the kind words!

**KrinWashu**: hehe, I know, I know. I'm evil. :) Yet you continue to be so awesome to me with your reviews and I'm truly grateful you take the time to type it all up. It's not only flattering but helpful as well. It's always good to know which aspects of the story you (and others, of course) like/enjoy the most. This way I can give you more of those things. Well, most of the time. Occasionally, I just write whatever I want. :) But I definitely like the way you think, especially about Eli's motives and Myra's assumptions - it's one giant pot of mess brewing and (mini spoiler alert!) Eli will stoke the fire under it. And not knowing what the hell's going on is a completely normal reaction. There's barely any clues yet but I'll add more as we crawl forward. ;) Oh and don't worry about that Stacie cameo. It will be quick and mostly painless, like yanking off a very annoying Band-Aid.

**aprilf00l**: I know I'm the worst but I hope this new chapter will soothe your frayed nerves. ;) *hugs*

**Do**: I doubt I'll win any awards for being the fastest updater around here but kind and amazing people like you always push me to try and type faster. :) Thank you so much!

**Patamar2**: LOL I'm very happy and flattered you find the plot so gripping. I hope you're okay, though, because yes! There's more. :D

**Lenka Sekera**: wow. I mean, holy cow WOW! Thanks a million! I'll do my very best not to disappoint.

**obsessivecompulsivehobbit**: oh you! If ego boosting were an Olympic sport, you'd have no rivals, I'm telling you. :D Thanks so much!

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><p>~ <strong>CONTROL<strong> ~

His head is filled with quiet dread and loud heartbeats. He's walking, phone clutched in one hand, her purse in the other. His grasp is so tight, his knuckles are yellow-white and his palms are hurting. He swallows when he finally reaches her door. There's a tall, heavy-set police officer standing there, guarding it with a grave expression and a distinct unwillingness to move – definitely a rookie but a giant one still. He's blocking not just the way in but Eli's line of sight to the apartment as well.

"Can I help you, sir?" the officer asks. His professionally distant but not thoroughly unkind voice jars Eli out of his stupor.

He's afraid to ask. He's afraid of what the answer might be. The question, however, is already clawing its way out. "What…" He's trying to keep his voice even but it cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "What happened?" It's out, leaving a sharp taste in his mouth.

The young officer regards him with some concern. Being freshly out of the academy, he has little actual experience of dealing with human emotion in its rawest, most unstable form that's so frequently encountered at crime scenes, and Eli isn't used to experiencing it with such intensity. The younger man stares back at the older, sharing a brief moment of confused apprehension. "Home invasion," he offers a piece of fact. It's dull and soft – like a page from one of his course books that was supposed to explain how to deal with situations like this one.

Eli nods mutely but the uncertainty is getting increasingly unbearable. "Is she okay?" When the officer doesn't answer, he asks again. "The young woman who lives here. Is she okay?"

The young cop really doesn't want to have this conversation, so he falls back on routine and walls himself behind worn-out, empty phrases. "Are you a relative, sir?"

Eli's found his voice. Now he feels his temper flaring up, too, as his jaw clenches and a firm, mildly irritated "no" leaves his lips.

"Then I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to answer," the officer says just as firmly but politely. Orders are orders, after all.

If the young policeman weren't almost twice his size, Eli would merrily shove him aside and walk right in. If they were in Chicago, he'd probably be inside already. This helplessness is making him angrier by the second, and the rookie probably senses the growing tension because he adds, "But you can talk to Lieutenant Mills once he's finished inside."

Eli appears to be placated by this. He forces himself to put on a good face. "Thank you," he says and turns to walk away but he has no intention of leaving – or waiting, for that matter. He just needs a little time. He is getting inside one way or another. The officer's radio buzzes to life and Eli glances back at him. The young man is only too happy to be distracted and eagerly reaches for his shoulder mic to respond. Eli stops and watches him. The rookie turns, leaving just enough room for a smaller person to slip right through. It's a split-second decision but that's how much time Eli is granted to make his entrance. And another split-second later he finds himself inside Natalie's living room again.

He sees shattered glass on the carpet and hears people yelling at him. He doesn't care. He just wants to walk further inside to look for her but suddenly he finds he can't move. Somebody is holding him from behind. It's probably the young policeman who guarded the door - well, tried to guard it.

"What's going on here?"

The booming voice effectively quiets everyone down. Its owner emerges from the room next to the bathroom – the one Eli assumes to be the roommate's. But the man who steps out is definitely not him. He has a strong limp but no cane. He is wearing a simple light gray suit, and there's a gold watch chain threaded through the buttonhole of his dark blue vest. He's in his 50's with silver hair and short, salt-and-pepper beard. The older man has a gripping presence. Eli's gaze shifts to the man's hands. He's wearing gloves but they are nothing like those nice soft brown ones Mrs. Green had. These are white latex gloves – the kind used for handling evidence. Eli locks eyes with the man he presumes to be Lieutenant Mills.

Desperate brown clashes with piercing blue.

"This is a crime scene, sir. You can't be in here," the man says after a quiet moment and nods to the young officer holding Eli in an iron grip. The rookie starts pulling him back towards the front door.

"No! W-w-wait! Wait! Please, just tell me where she is."

The silvery man with blue eyes and white gloves looks back at Eli but his expression is hard to read. Eli, on the other hand, is an open book – the kind this seasoned detective has read many times before.

"Please," Eli pleads as he stops struggling. If they want him to beg, he will beg.

The lieutenant looks at him even more intently, then glances at the crime scene technician crouching by an open toolkit filled with colorful fingerprint powders and security tapes, white cotton swabs and a myriad of other mysterious tools of this gruesome trade. "Have you finished in here?"

"Just about," she replies.

The man nods and takes off his gloves. Each comes off with an elastic snap. "It's all right, kid."

"Sir?" the rookie asks, slightly confused.

"Let him go," the older man instructs him with quiet firmness.

No one in the room questions him and the young officer complies at once.

"What's your name, sir?" the man asks, pocketing the gloves.

"Eli…" He swallows. "Gold."

The man nods as if Eli just confirmed something he already suspected. "Wait here, Mr. Gold." And with that, he silently limps back to the room he came from.

He could have thrown Eli out or worse. He could have handcuffed him too. He probably should have and, more importantly, he still can. Eli swallows dry. His mouth tastes bitter. He glances around. His head is throbbing with mix of worry and confusion. The violent mess in the living room makes him feel even worse, so he decides to focus on the door through which the man – Mills, although he still isn't sure – disappeared. And that's when he sees a familiar face emerging.

He blinks.

She's still there. Roughed up. Scratched up. Shaken up. With messy dark hair and a neat row of white butterfly bandages on her forehead. It's her. She's so very real and alive. Her eyes light up when she sees him. "Hi," she greets him quietly and smiles. She's visibly grateful he's here.

"Hey," he says clumsily, relieved and smiling, and instinctively begins to walk toward her.

The older man has been observing them from the background but the second Eli moves, he steps in front of Natalie, shielding her. Despite his bad leg, he's surprisingly fast.

"Please, step back, sir. We haven't quite finished with her yet." Catching the intense, angry flash in Eli's eyes and noting his furrowed brows, he decides to put things bluntly. "She is evidence."

"She is hurt," Eli corrects him irritably. His temper is threatening to get the best of him again. The stress, the fear, the relief, the guilt, the anger, this whole situation – everything seems to be adding up and overwhelm him and he can't seem to find a good way to handle it. Too much emotion always brings out the worst in him; it makes him lash out or flee – or both. Right now he really wants to lose it, and by blocking his way to Natalie, the lieutenant practically painted a target on himself.

Thankfully, his attention gets distracted.

"It's okay, Eli," Natalie says softly, peeking out at him from behind the older man. Eli tears his gaze away from him to look at her and the sudden shame he feels temporarily drowns out every other emotion boiling inside him. He sees not a victim but a resolute young woman and it's a sobering slap in the face. She's keeping it together while he is ready to rip somebody's head off. She deserves better. He _wants_ to make it better for her. He wants to _be_ better for her. He glances back at the lieutenant who's been watching them, intrigued by their interaction. Eli's jaw sets and he bows his head slightly, inhaling through his nose – it takes away some of his anger. "Sorry." The hardest word indeed. It's rough, cutting and foul-flavored. He has to chew on it a bit before spitting it out but he does it anyway. For her.

The older man nods and his fingers unhook from the metal cuffs clipped to the back of his belt. Apology accepted. Then he turns back towards the room: "Finish things up with Ms. Flores, will you, Tess?"

The young woman – she can't be much older than Natalie – steps out to shepherd "the evidence" back inside. Before turning away, Natalie looks at Eli one more time and a faint smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Every atom of his body is vibrating with emotion, the urge to protect and the utter failure to do so. He is a fixer but he can't fix this. Maybe she doesn't need him to but the instinct is still there, gnawing at him; its sharp teeth sink deeper by each second he's forced to spend in this suffocating cage of inaction.

"I'll be fine," she tells him softly.

"And I'll be right here," he says and there's nothing but pure caring in his tone. He offers a small smile which she returns – a silent thank you and a confirmation: him being here is enough. It is as simple as that. She disappears again behind a closing door. When Eli looks back at the lieutenant, the questions are practically etched on his face. _Why close the door? What are you doing to her? What happened?_ His mind is reeling and the lieutenant doesn't exactly rush to help him out. Instead, he extends an arm to indicate the couch. "Shall we?"

Eli stares at him for a moment. He glances at the couch, then back at older man but doesn't move. There's quiet defiance and genuine concern in his eyes – and something akin to fear. There's something he cannot bring himself to ask – cannot even begin to articulate the question – but he wants, needs, to know. The lieutenant reads him just fine.

"EMTs already checked her out. Aside from a few cuts and bruises on her arms and her head, she is _completely_ fine." He waits for Eli to absorb the words and their implication: the assault was not sexual. "The guy who attacked her feels much worse, I can assure you."

Eli raises a questioning eyebrow.

"She hit him with a baseball bat. Straight in the face," the lieutenant clarifies, then briefly consults his notes: "Twice, maybe three times," he adds with a trace of a smile in his voice and Eli already feels significantly better. "There might be some evidence left on her clothes so we need to collect them," he explains, then nods in the direction of the closed door. "That's what's going on in there right now."

Eli needs a few seconds to process all that, then nods. The older man once again gestures towards the couch and this time Eli starts to move. Glass crunches under his shoes – it came from the small coffee table that now lies in a sad, shattered heap on the living room carpet. He sits. The older man follows him but remains standing. Eli mentally curses himself for sitting down so quickly but it's too late now. He sighs and leans back, trying to resign himself to this inferior position. All he can do is stare up at the other man and feel like a misbehaving kid in the principal's office. The lieutenant stares back, observing and evaluating. There's a certain stoic calmness about him, stillness and strength, enwrapping him like a strange cloak, lending him an air of dignity. He opens his small, leather-bound notebook and taps it with his pen. "Gold, was it? Your name?"

"Yes," Eli answers even though he's sure the lieutenant remembered his name just fine. "And you are…?"

"Lieutenant Arthur Mills, Metro Police. Nice to meet you," he answers in a single breath and somewhat absent-mindedly, his gaze fixed on his little notebook. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, Eli regards him. He can't quite get a handle on this man, which he finds rather bothersome. Whether they are aware of it or not, most people lend themselves to easy categorization and, as a result, are often very predictable. Mills is everything and nothing one would expect a police lieutenant of his age to be.

"Do you live here, Mr. Gold?"

Eli furrows his brows. "In the apartment?"

"In D.C."

"No." There's silence for a few seconds. Mills glances at him expectantly, so after an annoyed sigh Eli finally adds, "I live in Chicago."

"And what brought you to the capital?"

Eli hesitates, eyeing the lieutenant with some confusion and slight irritation. "What's that got to do with what happened here?"

"Probably nothing but entering my crime scene without permission automatically qualifies you for a round of 20 Questions." When Eli doesn't react, he repeats the question, "What brought you here, sir?"

"Business."

It's as vague as he can get but Mills gives a satisfied little nod. "What kind of business?" he asks as he continues scribbling. He's writing down a lot more than what's being said and it makes Eli somewhat uncomfortable.

"Campaign…" he starts but trails off a bit, leaning forward, craning his neck, trying to read some of what Mills is so busy penning, "… management."

His answer prompts a simple "hmm" from the lieutenant who suddenly stops writing and glances up. With that, awkward silence ensues. Feeling caught, Eli reluctantly and ever so slowly leans back, wowing not to sit down in the presence of this man ever again. Mills waits a few more seconds, then breaks their silence with _the_ question: "What is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Flores?"

Eyes slitted down, Eli instinctively gets defensive. "Do you often ask questions you already know the answer to?"

"Do you often answer questions with questions?"

"Why do you ask?"

Mills looks at him silently, studying him, then simply resumes writing. For quite a while the pen's scratching is the only sound in the room, and it is slowly but surely driving Eli insane. He rolls his eyes, shifts on the couch, then shakes his head and lets out a sigh. "What are you writing anyway?" he asks at last, giving in.

"Since you're not in a sharing mood, I have to improvise," Mills replies without looking up.

"You mean do actual police work?"

Mills looks up from his notes and fixes Eli with a stare. "Do you want to know who did this?" he asks after a long moment.

"Yes," Eli answers without hesitation.

Mills nods. "So do I." Three simple words, another sobering slap. The message is clear: they are on the same side and Eli needs to dial back the attitude – a big ask, especially in the current situation.

Eli grinds his molars in quiet frustration, then glances at the closed door behind which Natalie is probably undressing now – so not the time to think about _that_. He quickly averts his gaze and begins staring at his shoes – fine shoes, very comfortable, very expensive, and also very, very unhelpful. He fidgets. He is still reacting and this helplessness is maddening. He is angry. Yes, he wants to know who did this. He also wants a few minutes alone with the guy. But misplaced anger will not grant him those wishes. Co-operation, on the other hand, might breed faster results.

The lieutenant's last question still rings in his ear so he decides to start there. "We met in Chicago last year," he says at last, then clears his throat. "But the circumstances weren't exactly… well…" he glances back up at Mills, "… right."

Mills regards him for a moment. "What about now?" he prods but he doesn't appear to be judgmental at all.

Eli drops his gaze, letting out a quiet laugh, then abruptly goes silent. What about now? Well, that is the question, isn't it? "We're still trying to figure that out."

Mills looks at him – he knows an emotional jumble when he sees one. "All right."

The lieutenant jots down a few more things and Eli watches the pen's scribbly dance. Something occurs to him. "Did you talk to Natalie too?"

The pen stills and Mills looks up. "I did." Eli nods. As a pre-emptive gesture, the lieutenant quickly adds, "And yes, your name came up." Eli is about to speak but Mills cuts him off. "No." He clicks the pen and shuts the notebook.

"No what?" Eli asks, feigning complete ignorance.

"I'm not telling you what she said."

Eli appears insulted by the mere suggestion. "I wasn't gonna ask."

"Of course you weren't," Mills remarks, pocketing the notebook, then something catches his attention. "What's that?" he asks, referring to the smallish bag on the couch.

Eli follows his gaze. "Natalie's purse."

"Any particular reason why _you_ carry it around?"

"Because _I_ found it in a trashcan outside."

"So you just… grabbed it."

Eli opens his mouth to speak but then swallows the retort as the realization hits him. He glares at Mills, feeling embarrassed, guilty, and frustrated.

The lieutenant sighs and turns away. "Kevin, get me an evidence bag, will you?" He looks back at Eli and adds, "And bring the print kit, too."

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><p>TBC<p> 


	12. Touch

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><strong>Nosferatu's-Cigarette-Binge<strong>: thanks so much! The story will go on, I promise. Oh so slowly but surely. :) And here's hoping that we'll see Natalie again in S4. tbh I no longer care how they bring her back. just bring. her. back. writers. please.

**aprilf00l**: yes, I'm back again. I always show up eventually with the next chapter. ;) I'm so glad you still enjoy it and thank you!

**KellyD**: I love you, too. :) Thanks so much!

* * *

><p><strong>~ TOUCH ~<strong>

She watches the glass pot darkening as it starts to fill up with steamy, hot coffee. Lieutenant Mills asked her if there was a way to get a cup. Eli readily told him the way to that little coffee shop nearby but Natalie was more than happy to make a fresh pot. She was grateful for the distraction but now her attention begins to wander and her gaze keeps landing on Eli. He's being fingerprinted. Her prints were scanned, Eli, however, is getting the old-school ink-and-card treatment, courtesy of Lieutenant Mills. She watches him, trying to do a quick inventory of her feelings but she's only marginally successful. Her brain is still scrambled but every time she looks at him, she feels a pang of relief.

Tess has been saddled with the task of recording Eli's elimination prints. She carefully inks his finger, then gently guides his arm over the form while Eli's face betrays only a slight frown. The whole process involves a lot of touching and a necessary violation of personal space but Tess acts the same way with Eli as she did with Natalie: she's being friendly but professional. Eli, however, has yet to master the art of small talk over ink and fingerprint forms. He tries but at this point his eyebrows still do most of the talking, which clearly amuses Tess. Then, when his left sleeve slips down and Tess helps him roll it back up, Natalie feels a sudden rush of jealousy. It's stupid, unwarranted, intense and undeniable. She grabs the pot to pour a cup of coffee for the lieutenant who's still out, investigating. Finding and fighting a masked stranger in one's living room is unnerving at best and she still feels raw from the experience. She's been keeping it together rather well so far but her hands won't stop shaking and, as a result, some of the hot black liquid ends up on her. A colorful string of profanities leaves her lips – some English, some Spanish, some undetermined –, and Eli's head snaps up instantly.

There's concern and surprise in his eyes. "Are you all right?"

She's not and the searing pain doesn't help things either. She hates being so out of control. She hates that he sees it. She hates this whole situation. But she refuses to break down and the only way she can do that right now is by pushing aside the pain, the fear, the frustration and the confusion – by denying all of it. "I'm fine," she says and steps to the sink to run cold water on her hand.

Eli doesn't believe her for a second. He wants to go to her so badly but his left arm is still trapped between Tess' hands. The young woman glances at him with a small, knowing smile. "I'll let you go in a sec."

He is about to signal his appreciation when he hears a familiar voice asking for Natalie. Then Richard Thomas waltzes into the apartment and Eli tenses up immediately. Richard sees him and halts at the sight. He seems confused and uncertain about many things. "Hey," he greets Eli who reluctantly acknowledges him with a nod of his head.

"What's going on?" Richard asks, his gaze shifting between Eli's blank expression and his ink-smeared fingers.

"We're having a theme party," Eli deadpans. Tess has to stifle a grin but Richard doesn't seem to appreciate the humor. There's a distinct what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you expression on his face but his attention quickly switches to Natalie when she emerges from the walk-in pantry. Trapped in ink and a young crime scene technician's hands, Eli is forced to stay put as Richard quickly walks up to Natalie. He can't even hear what's being said, he's so focused on what the younger man's doing. Richard reaches out and lightly squeezes Natalie's shoulders, then his hand sweeps down and along her arms in a gentle caress. He's doing precisely what Eli denied himself only a few minutes ago – when his hands weren't covered in ink and Natalie wasn't busy staring at a coffee pot at the other side of the kitchen counter. He wanted to comfort her. He could have touched her. He didn't. Given the circumstances, it didn't feel right to be the first one reaching out. Richard, however, seems to have no such qualms about wrapping himself around her yet again. He reminds Eli of that giant octopus in that horribly cheesy movie Marissa made him watch a few weeks ago.

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches and his right hand slowly clutches into a fist, drawing his knuckles white and further smearing the black ink on his fingers. But then Natalie takes a step back and away from Richard. The younger man seems to get the message and awkwardly stuffs his intruding hand into his pants' pocket. He clears his throat. "Mike called and told me what happened," he says.

Eli's eyebrows go up immediately. "Who's Mike?" he interrupts, not bothered by the slightest that he wasn't even included in the conversation or that he's standing about 10 feet away.

"A friend of mine," Richard answers curtly without looking at him.

"He lives one floor down. His place was ransacked, too," Natalie adds.

"Is that so?" Eli asks, his eyes shifting from Natalie to Richard, the wheels in his head already turning, eagerly connecting the dots that are there and those that might not be. "You are quite the lucky charm, aren't you, Dick?" he remarks with a vicious, victorious little smile.

The semi-veiled accusation gets Richard's attention and he flashes Eli an angry glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me," Eli says. His tone provokes the younger man even further but he remains silent.

Natalie glances from Richard to Eli, then from Eli to Richard. Neither says another word. Tess presses Eli's left palm onto the form and with that they are finished. She offers Eli a couple of wipes and a thank-you smile. He welcomes both – especially the wipes.

Natalie grabs the coffee mug. "I'll be right back," she tells Richard. "Eli."

When he glances up, she's already on her way out. He catches up to her outside but she simply continues walking down the corridor in silence. The situation feels familiar to him. She might be angry and he doesn't really know what to say, so he opts for silence. It may seem the safest choice but it gets very uncomfortable very soon. They reach the elevator and she smacks the call button. "Is everything okay?" he asks at last but when she faces him, he regrets it instantly.

"You tell me," she says, throwing his words back into his face.

He sighs. His eyes drop and he starts fiddling with the wipes in his hand. The ink just won't rub off his skin. He twists his lips and his teeth began to abuse the inside of his mouth.

"Eli?"

Hearing his name prompts him to make eye contact again. He is silent and she regards him with mixed emotions.

"Why do you hate Richard so much?" she asks, her voice matter-of-fact.

He tries to protest. "I don't hate him. I just…" He trails off and she raises an eyebrow. "I'm just looking out for you," he says quietly, dodging her original question. She keeps looking at him, so he averts his eyes. "I don't like having him around," he admits, staring at the wall, then looks back at her. Now she raises both eyebrows. "It's not… I'm not jealous," he adds quickly – maybe a little too quickly. He doesn't want to be _that_ guy, obsessed and controlling, but her eyebrows continue questioning his behavior. He doesn't want to tell her what Kalinda found out. Not just yet. He drops his gaze, trying to hide behind a flimsy shield made of air and silence. She could tear it down effortlessly if she wanted to.

"Okay," she says, tilting her head a bit. She looks tired. She is tired so she lets him off the hook. For now.

The elevator arrives and its doors slide open with a ding. Eli's still evasive, which overrides almost everything, including politeness. He quickly steps in. Natalie calmly follows. When she gets in, she doesn't turn around so once again they are standing face to face. She presses the button for the 6th floor and the doors close. There isn't that much space and since both refuse to move, they are barely inches apart. It's an odd moment. Slightly awkward but intimate. His tension subsides and she seeks and finds comfort in his closeness. She doesn't want to analyze or question why. She just wants to enjoy it. She flickers a glance at him but Eli seems to be taking a huge interest in the elevator's control panel.

She stares at his tie, its simple yet elegant striped pattern, and the way it's knotted at his throat. It moves slightly, rising and falling with each of his breath. He glances at the cup of coffee in her hand – it's shaking a bit but not because the elevator started moving. Anger swells up in him once again but her voice jars him out of his thoughts.

"Did you know there are 85 ways to tie a tie?" she asks out of the blue. A mixture of surprise and confusion washes over him, dulling his anger.

Their eyes meet. It's his turn to raise an eyebrow and a small smile crosses his lips. He can't help it. "No, I did not know that."

"Well… now you do," she says with a grin in her voice. His smile grows, then slowly fades. The air changes. The mood shifts. The full weight of his gaze is on her now, taking in everything.

This time her eyes drop and her free hand reaches up. Cold, shaky fingertips slide along his tie, feeling its soft fabric and the warmth seeping through layers of clothing. She breathes in the scent of their owner. He reaches for her hand and gently covers it with his own. His thumb strokes the back of her fingers – it's cautious, gentle, soothing, and sensuous.

Their eyes lock again. Slowly and tentatively, they are drawing even closer to each other. She licks her lips and he lowers his head, tilting it. Their lips only brush at first, then she kisses him lightly and he kisses back. When they pull apart, a small smile forms on his face but she can tell that a tiny part of him is still wary and confused by being wanted, needed, and accepted like this. Andre took her for granted. Eli doesn't, not for a second. There always seems to be a tinge of wonder in his gaze when he looks at her.

She loves his eyes. He has kind eyes. There's rough honesty in them, a bittersweet reflection of things deeply buried, and a glint of mischief – ageless, shiny, and contagious. He'd probably laugh at her if she ever told him – or look away. So she doesn't risk it. She wants him to look at her. She needs him to see her. She craves his gaze, his nearness, him – because of what happened and despite of it.

Suddenly a loud creak shatters their silence and the elevator lurches. The coffee she's carrying is about to spill but Eli quickly reaches up and helps her steady the cup before he ends up with another stained shirt. Then there's ringing stillness. They both glance up as the cables' eerie groan echoes through the shaft. They exchange a worried look as the lights flicker, then go out completely. Pitch black engulfs them and for a long, unsettling moment there's only deafening silence. He grasps her hand a bit tighter. The elevator starts up again, then comes to a sudden halt. The lights flicker back on and the doors part at the 6th floor.

They don't dare move. Eli is barely breathing. "Just tell me this is normal," he says, his voice barely above a whisper as if he's afraid the elevator might hear him and take offense.

"This is normal," Natalie whispers back. Her heart is in her throat but she smiles faintly when he looks at her.

"Slamming," he says under his breath as he glances around.

She looks at him a bit taken aback, not sure if she heard it right. "'Slamming'?"

His gaze drops, then he looks up – almost shyly. "It's… youth talk." She can't contain her grin any longer. "I'm trying to pick up some new words," he explains with a straight face. She starts chuckling. "What?" he asks, breaking into a smile.

"Don't. Your old words are just fine."

"My _old_ words?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, followed by a slight purse of his lips. Apparently, he's still a bit touchy about his age.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. Newspapers," he teases.

She rolls her eyes but on the inside she's kind of impressed he still remembers that.

"Are you okay in here?" a uniformed cop asks, peeking into the elevator.

Eli keeps his eyes on Natalie for a moment, then glances up at the policeman. "Yes, we're fine."

He lets go of her hand and Natalie turns around. "But something's up with this thing."

"Yeah, I heard," the cop says as he leans in, glances around, then checks the panel. "It's fine now."

Eli raises his eyebrows skeptically. "And you know that because…?"

"Because we're not falling," the cop answers, tongue-in-cheek, and winks at Natalie. It's playful and innocent, earning a soft smile form Natalie – and an eye roll from Eli.

"Is Lieutenant Mills here?" she asks.

"Right there, ma'am," the officer says, taking a step back, gesturing toward the end of the corridor. Natalie turns back to Eli and mouths "ma'am?" He grins at her in response and after some hesitation they quickly get out of the elevator.

Lieutenant Mills is busy taking notes again, but he looks up when he hears Natalie and Eli approaching. She offers him the coffee and the older man's tired face lights up instantly.

"You're a lifesaver. Thank you so much," he says and takes a hearty sip. Then his gaze travels to Eli's ink stained hands and gestures toward them with the cup. "I see Tess has finished with you."

"She has," Eli confirms in a clipped tone.

"Good. Send her up when you get back, will you?"

"Why? What's going on here?" Eli asks. The lieutenant glances at Natalie, then back at Eli. She clearly hasn't told him yet.

"Mr. Singleton's apartment here has been burglarized too," Mills informs Eli, then takes another sip.

"Was it the same guy?" Eli asks.

"Seems that way," Mills says and Eli takes a peek into his notes while the lieutenant drinks from his coffee.

He reads it out loud. "Medium height, medium built, male, Hispanic, question mark, in a…" Eli tilts his head and narrows his eyes, trying to make out the words. "'Skirt… crack.' Skirt crack?" He looks at Mills, frowning. "What the hell is that?"

Mills snaps his notebook closed. "It's 'ski mask'."

But Eli no longer cares. He's looking at Natalie now. "How do you know he was Hispanic?"

"I don't. He sounded like a native speaker, that's all," she says.

"He talked?"

"When I hit him, he sort of… indicated that he didn't approve," Natalie says. "In Spanish," she adds then looks at Mills. "Is Mr. Singleton okay?"

"He's fine," he replies then someone shouts his name from the apartment. "Coming." He glances to Natalie and Eli. "Excuse me." And with that, he limps inside.

Eli chews on this new piece of information for a moment, then looks at Natalie. "Does Dick know this Mr. Singleton?" he asks, indicating the apartment with a nod of his head.

She ignores the question and asks her own. "You think Richard has something to do with this?" Eli regards her but doesn't answer right away so she adds, "Or do you just want him to have something to do with this?"

He takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure yet," he admits with a slight tilt of his head. It's vague, it's barely an answer but it's the truth.

She knows because his lies are usually better packaged. He seems conflicted and she feels a sudden urge to clarify something once and for all. She's never really been one for beating around the bush anyway. "I haven't been with anyone since Andre," she admits right there in the corridor. It's an act of bizarre honesty, both courageous and trembling. He looks like a deer in a headlight. Once again she manages to take him completely off-guard but he can't tear his gaze away from her. "And we broke up right before I went to see you at the party."

His expression softens. He can't find the words to express how he feels but she can tell how much her impromptu confession means to him from the way he's looking at her. His gaze is different now. She feels more confidence in him and a certain calmness that wasn't there before. Not when he was with her. It looks like he's finally made a decision.

They didn't get to spend much time together back in Chicago but something from those brief encounters has stayed with him long after she left and it is still there. He reaches out. His hand slips into hers and she laces her fingers with his. He looks at their entwined hands, then his eyes move up to her face.

His wounded inner cynic is still trying to grasp for control. "How is this gonna work?" he asks, hoping her answer delivers a _coup de grâce_.

"Do you want it to work?" she asks back. "Us?" she adds, clarifying. _Us_. He loves the sound of that and all of a sudden he finds he doesn't even have to think about the answer. It's already there, ready to be voiced. He doesn't want to swallow it back down any more.

"Yes."

She smiles and gently squeezes his hand. "That's how."

He mulls over her answer with pursed lips and an amused glint in his eyes, then raises an eyebrow. "Is it so easy?"

"Simple, not easy."

She's right. It isn't going to be easy but he wants to try and so does she. He is a cautious man, rarely taking uncalculated risks, but now he's ready to jump in both feet. For her. With her. Her acceptance is already bleeding into his guilt, her hope into his anxiety, her why not's into his why's. And she smiles. She knows.

What he refuses to chance, however, is another elevator ride. "Let's take the stairs," he suggests, his voice still low and thick with emotion.

She agrees and they hold onto each other's hand as they walk towards the door to the stairwell.


	13. Scorpion

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><em>an #1_

**aprilf00l**: LOL I can relate. My mind is always in the gutter when it comes to these two and I think it's starting to become blatantly obvious (if it wasn't already). But that's okay, IMO. :D Anyway, thank you so much for the kind words and the support! Hope you like this chapter too.

**Rachel**: no worries. I honestly don't expect people to review every single chapter - or review at all if they don't want to. It's totally fine but of course I'm beyond thrilled and appreciate it when you guys do. :) So thank you!

I still haven't given up hope that one day Natalie will be back on this show. Let's form a prayer circle for this little ship. :)

**Jenna Therrian**: thanks so much! I'm so glad you enjoy the ride (if I can call this snail-paced character piece a "ride" :) and find it realistic. To be honest, I'm kinda terrified every time I post a new chapter, thinking "I really screwed up this time and everyone will hate it", but kind people like you always help ease my neurotic mind, and I am grateful.

**Nosferatu's-Cigarette-Binge**: of course I mentioned you! It's the least I can do. I always try to respond as best as I can and thank _you_ for sticking with the story. I know these long breaks between updates are not ideal at all but real life just keeps disrupting my writing schedule. Hope it is still worth the wait, though. And thanks again! :)

**Do**: it's been a while indeed. :) I'm so sorry for the long wait. Yes, you put it perfectly: Eli and Natalie are "kinda" together now but it's not gonna be that easy. Naturally. ;) And thank you! So happy you are still interested!

Yes, we last saw Natalie in season 2, so if you ask me, it's time to revisit this little plotline. :)

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><p><em>an #2_: just a little heads-up, guys, that soon ("soon" in my case probably equals 2-3 months) I'll bump up the rating to "M", which means that the story will disappear from the default fic list. I don't want you to panic or riot or anything, so I'm giving you due warning. It's also possible that I'll move the whole thing to a different site where more explicit stuff can be posted. I haven't decided yet but I'll let you know when I do.

_a/n #3_: this chapter is still very much focused on character stuff but I also have a plot here somewhere and I will try to move that along a bit too in the next installment.

_a/n #4_: If you have any concerns, questions or general praise, don't be shy. I wanna hear it! Okay, I'll shut up now. Once again, thank you all for reading and enjoy!

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><p>~ <strong>SCORPION<strong> ~

He's standing right outside her apartment, phone pressed against his ear. He's listening to Frank but his eyes are on Richard and his mind is racing. The younger man is still inside, talking with Natalie. His presence is still annoying but not as much as it was an hour ago. Something has changed between the 6th and the 4th floor – an "us" has replaced some of the what ifs and maybes.

"Are you there?" Frank asks, his voice transforming back into actual words, and it re-focuses Eli's attention.

"Yes."

"And did you hear what I said?"

"Yes," Eli replies without hesitation. Then there's a moment of silence. "But repeat it."

He can almost hear the chairman roll his eyes. "Tomorrow's little get together has been moved from 10 to 8 am."

Eli furrows his brow. "Are you my assistant now, Frank?"

"If that's what it takes to get your ass there on time, then yes. Fiedler's very interested in the campaign and I need _you_ there to answer his questions. You. Not your assistant, not your staff. You."

"Yes, me. I get it, Frank."

"I sure hope so."

Eli hangs up and sees Mills limping towards him on the corridor, so he keeps fiddling with his phone, pretending not to be waiting for the lieutenant.

"Mr. Gold," he greets him, slightly out of breath and in obvious pain from having taken four flights of stairs. It seems he was warned about the elevator.

"Lieutenant." Eli nods, pocketing the phone. He looks at the older man and sees a flash of raw pain. "Don't you have a cane?" he asks with brows crinkled into a mildly concerned shape, his tone vaguely caring. It surprises both of them. "Or something?" he adds, aiming to sound thoroughly dismissive of the topic.

"I don't need it," Mills lies. He hates the damned thing as much as he needs it. So, naturally, he refuses to use it.

Both men just stand there for a while in silence.

Mills speaks at last. "Is there something you need?"

Eli's gaze remains on Natalie and Richard. "Have you talked to that guy?" he asks, indicating Richard with a small nod.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And… I don't know what you're getting at."

Eli's gaze leaves the conversing couple and meets the lieutenant's. "He has something to do with this." It's not just jealousy talking anymore.

Mills, however, is not convinced. "And you know this how?"

Eli shrugs. "Just a hunch."

"I'm afraid I'll need something more tangible than that."

"Then find it."

Mills doesn't say anything. Eli's jaws clench in frustration but before he could say anything, his phone starts ringing. He fishes it out and looks at the caller ID. This time it's Nora, his actual assistant. "Well, I'm so glad we had this talk," he tells Mills, then turns away to take the call.

"Yes? … Yes, I know. … What? No! … Did she send it? Okay. Yes. I'll need those. … That, too." He briefly glances at Natalie. "No, I can't now. No. I said not now. … Yeah. I'll text it." He hangs up, shoves the phone in his pocket with a tired sigh and runs a hand through his hair. He looks at the blackish stains on his fingers. They won't rub off. Why won't they rub off? It's such an insignificant, stupid thing, yet it makes him so very mad.

When he turns back around, he finds that Mills is still there, looking at him. "Yes?"

"Lemon juice," the older man says, then his tired, silvery form starts moving inside with a painful limp.

Eli just stands there with a confused frown on his face. "Great," he says but Mills keeps moving away with no further explanation. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

The lieutenant looks back and gestures to Eli's hands with his empty coffee cup. "Gets the ink off… eventually." And with that, he disappears inside. Eli doesn't even have time to react because now Richard appears. The younger man walks out with a whiff of contempt and sharp silence. He throws Eli a look, then starts down the corridor toward the elevator. After a few steps, however, he stops and turns back. He just can't help himself.

"She deserves better."

Eli's already busy typing on his phone but decides to grace Richard with a brief, dismissive glance. "I agree." And with that, the tiny, rapid sounds of button pushing resume.

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><p>The lieutenant places the cup on the counter. "Thank you for the coffee."<p>

"You're welcome," Natalie says. Mills glances around the apartment. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you." He regards her for a moment, then the only question he hasn't asked yet slips out. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." It's a reflex. She knows it. Mills knows it even better. She tugs on the sleeve of her jumper and steals a glance towards the door, as if to make sure nobody else can hear what's rather obvious to see, then:

"I'm not." A half-whispered, staggering confession followed by some more jumper sleeve tugging.

Mills nods and waits until her gaze meets his. She expects to see pity. She is wrong.

"You will be," he assures her and his eyes promise the same.

* * *

><p>Richard hesitates. He doesn't speak but he doesn't walk away either. Then comes another outburst of irritated bitterness. "I think you're a bad influence."<p>

Eli scoffs. "I think she can decide for herself," he says, still typing but he seems to be abusing the buttons with a bit more force.

"I care about her."

"Hm…" Eli grunts softly and somewhat absent-mindedly. "You have a funny way of showing that."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Gold."

Eli glances up, confused. "What?"

"I had nothing to do with this."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

Richard smiles at that. "I know you don't like me and that's okay. I'm not crazy about you, either."

"Well, I'm so relieved we cleared that up."

Richard studies him for a few silent moments. "Natalie obviously sees something in you that I can't."

"Yes," Eli agrees. "It's her thing, apparently."

"Yeah, you should know. I mean, you even tried to deport her and yet…," Richard's voice trails off into a forced chuckle. His words land with more impact than he anticipated. It hits Eli like a fist and pushes some emotion on the surface.

Did Natalie tell him?

Surprise, hurt, and anger flicker across Eli's face in rapid succession, then it all gets erased. He flashes a tense smile. "And yet here we are. You, on your way out. Me, on my way in."

Richard's smile fades but not completely. "She's a nice girl. Trusting. But too smart not to figure it out eventually.

"Figure out what?"

"That you…" Richard trails off and regards Eli for a moment. "Well, you are you."

"I am me," Eli repeats, unsure what to do with that astute observation.

"Yes. It's like in that story. You know, the one with the um… frog, I think, and the scorpion." Eli doesn't answer. Richard takes that as a yes. "You're going to screw her over. _Again_. It's just a matter of time. But I can wait."

Eli glances at Natalie, then back at Richard. He manages to swallow most of his rage, then takes a step closer to the younger man. "I'm willing to make an effort here, Dick," he says in a low, measured tone, "... to ignore you. But if I find out that you were involved in this in _any_ way, I will nail you to the wall, and I won't care if it sinks us both."

* * *

><p>She's cleaning the living room, trying to erase every physical reminder of what went down in there only a few hours ago. He offered to help. She declined with a firm voice but it was framed by a soft smile. She needs to do this alone. She needs to keep busy and get control of something. Anything. So he just sits in clumsy silence on a chair by the kitchen counter – "his chair". He tries to read some magazine but he can't even tell its name, let alone what's on the page he's been staring at for several minutes.<p>

From time to time, her gaze finds him and, if he's not looking, it lingers on his seated form.

Because he is a stirring comfort.

From time to time, he glances at her and, if she's not looking, his eyes travel her body.

Because she is a beautiful risk.

After a while the chair gets uncomfortable and he feels thirsty. He rises to his feet to get a glass of water and accidentally kicks something on the floor. It's a book. He picks it up and turns it in his hand to read the faded title.

_Economics_ by Paul Samuelson.

His initial fond smile quickly shrinks from his lips. He stares at the book. It's a handful of guilt. It always finds its way back to him. It clutches him, feeds on him. It burns his heart.

_It would have been nice if you were a party planner. _Words wound. _I really liked the idea of that. _These marred. They still ring in his ear – her clear voice in his vague silence. He couldn't say much and even that felt completely meaningless. Insulting, even. He was all out of lies. There was nothing left to deny, even less to spin into something safe and less… stinging. There was only that devastating look of disappointment in her eyes – sad, mute, and so sharp. He was no party planner. In that moment he couldn't be anything. He just sat there in shackles of shame, raw and helpless. Of course she left. He wouldn't have stayed, either. It hurt but it made perfect sense. He looks at her again. She's straightening the pillows on the couch. She glances up and their eyes meet. He smiles and she smiles back. This hurts too, but in a completely different way. He never thought happiness could hurt. His does now.

And it makes no sense.

Not unlike his fingers, his feelings have stains, too. They carry a kind of guilty residue. Itchy, sticky, elastic patches that seem to stretch as the feelings grow. And they grow. They are crowding his head and tightening his chest. "Do you regret it?" It's an almost inaudible question, the kind that just slips out. He barely realizes when it does.

"Regret what?" she asks but he doesn't answer. She walks up to him and sees the book in his hand. His inky thumb absently caresses the worn cover, then his eyes meet hers again. His expression is a curious mixture of self-loathing and affection. He wants to say something but nothing comes out. She takes hold of the book, her fingertips brushing the side of his hand. He watches her quietly, and the distance between them starts to fill up with hesitant need. He smiles shyly – it's an almost involuntary, famished smile. Yes, he wants this to work. He wants it so much it's splitting him into two. She thinks that's enough. There was a time he thought the same. Then there was a divorce. And an injuring betrayal. But she is young and he… isn't. He knows he shouldn't be here. He also knows that unless she asks, he won't leave. _You are you_.

She really should ask. But she won't.

He invited her to the Election Day victory party because he wanted her to see that the betrayal meant something. He worked hard to make it mean something. He did it not just for Peter or some obscure greater good or for more money and power. _It was the right thing to do_, his pollster told him. "It was a mistake," he tells her quietly. He's relapsing.

He looks awkward and helpless. She furrows her brow, wondering what brought this on again. They seem to be dancing a new kind of dance now – the one step forward, two step back kind. She feels unusually certain and confident. He suffers from an unsettling lack of those exact same things. Their beginnings were made of false words and honest moments. Now there's silence and so much gravity. An incomprehensible connection. Her quiet acceptance and his voice.

"I had to make it." _I'm sorry._ He doesn't say that out loud. He doesn't dare but she understands. She knows the weight of those necessary mistakes, too. They are heavy and they keep dragging their makers down.

"Let it go, Eli." _Please. _She can't make him do it. She might not even be able to help much but what she can most definitely do is keep trying.

Because words heal, too.

He swallows, then takes a deep, silent breath. He lets go of the book and she gently pulls it from his stained grasp. It's a start. A tiny step forward.

"You knew," he says. She waits and hopes that there's more to go on. There is. "You knew I lied but you came to the restaurant anyway."

"Yup." She smiles, then tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She gets flustered under his gaze. It's dark brown now and so hungry, pleading for something to soothe this confusion.

"Why?" Another desperate attempt to understand. To verify. To make sure.

She bites her lower lip and takes her time with the answer. "Maybe I hoped you were genuinely interested… I mean, as a guy… not just as a… you know…" The sentence deteriorates into raised eyebrows and a small, albeit unapologetic smile. "Scheming bastard."

"I was," he tells her. "… I am."

"A scheming bastard?" she teases.

"That, too," he admits with eyes cast down and a sad little smile, then runs a hand through his hair – a nervous habit she's getting increasingly fond of. "And…" Now he trails off and looks at her. His confession comes few words at a time. "A guy… who's very… genuinely interested." He's squeezed it out.

"You could have told me." He drops his gaze again and nods. "You didn't..." He shakes his head, then glances up and sighs. "I'm not a mind reader, Eli. Sometimes you have to use your words."

He nods again. "I'll see what I can do," he says with a small grin. "Ma'am."

She playfully smacks him with the book, then puts it on the shelf under the counter.

His eyes follow her movements, studying, admiring, worrying. "You could come with me," he offers, then clears his throat. "To the hotel, I mean." She sits down – on "his chair" – but doesn't speak. "Just until you get back your baseball bat," he adds with a faint quirk of his lips.

"This is my home, Eli." Her voice rings with bruised strength. She isn't going anywhere.

She sees the pursed lips and the chewing. She knows he's trying not to argue and watches the words being swallowed back. He sees the clenched jaws, the jumper wringing, the locked-in emotions, and the marks of violence on her skin. He knows she's trying to get some semblance of control over a nameless, faceless attacker but this is still foolish. He chokes back the words and breathes a defeated sigh. He is frustrated, alarmed, and fascinated. The intruder is long gone but she is still fighting. It is instinctive, impulsive, honest, and crazy. She has no plan. No strategy. There's no scheming. It's unwise, unsafe, so un-him and so her and so… _Us._

"You shouldn't be alone."

His caring cracks her shield and slips through. She lowers her eyes, looks at his shoes. They weren't much help for their owner before and they are just as unhelpful now. Fortunately, she doesn't need help. She knows exactly what she wants but it takes a few moments of quiet shoe-staring to voice it.

"Then stay."

She's not begging. She's asking without asking, and when he doesn't answer, she peers up. The need to touch him and be touched by him is getting increasingly difficult to ignore. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out for her – it's an instinctive, respectful gesture. Her palm slides over his upturned one, and he pulls her up from the chair. His arms slide around her waist and he gently pulls her against him. She wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. Her eyes drift shut and after a long moment, she lets out a mute sigh. Then, eyes still closed, she just listens. He inhales slowly. She hears his lungs fill with air and she breathes with him. His heart is so loud – almost as deafening as hers. A tiny smile curves her lips. His fingertips slide up and down her back and hers fiddle with the soft gray at the nape of his neck. They stay like this for a while. Breathing, needing, wanting, comforting, mending – helping each other to let go. There's some faint music drifting from the radio in the kitchen and he begins to sway a bit. She smiles into his shirt, then shifts, trying to get even closer, and buries her face against his neck. He can feel the rhythmic warmth of her breath on his skin and her cool fingertips on his scalp. It's both numbing and electrifying. His hands become somewhat unsteady but they continue traveling up her back and down again, soothing the cold tension in her body and gradually building something else.

"Do you have lemon juice?" His question comes out of the blue. They are so close, she can feel his voice.

Her eyes open. She doesn't know how else to react so she just answers. "I do."

"Okay," he says in a casual tone, as if this were the most natural thing to discuss right at this moment. "I'll stay then." She can hear his smile and he can soon feel hers. It's kissed into his skin. As she slowly works her way up to his jaw line, his breathing gets increasingly uneven. She plants a lingering kiss behind his ear, making him shiver. His hand slides up into her hair and he gently pulls her head back. For a split second she feels disappointed. Then she feels his mouth against hers. It brings a fresh rush of relief and arousal. The first couple of kisses are quick, tentative, light, and tender, but they soon become longer, deeper, more urgent and demanding.

His tongue sweeps along her lower lip and a pleasant chill courses through her body. His light stubble grazes her skin, and he teases her lips apart, deepening their kiss. Her hands drift down, along his chest, then up again, sweeping his ribcage with fingers fanned out. There's way too much fabric and not enough skin. His fingers trail along the waistline seam of her jumper. Her hands slide up to the knot of his tie and, slowly, her fingers start to loosen it apart. He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away. His ragged breathing feels cool against her mouth. "You seem a bit out of breath," she explains playfully and he grins as he rests his forehead against hers. His tie slides off from around his neck in a fabricky whisper, but she can only undo the top button of his shirt before his mouth finds hers again. After that, it gets rather difficult to concentrate, but soon three more buttons are undone. His hands slide under her jumper. His fingertips begin trailing upward. His thumbs lightly brush against the warm undercurves of her breasts through the tank top she's wearing underneath, but then his hands retreat and tug at her jumper. This time she breaks the kiss and pulls back a little to look at him. "You seem a little flushed," he whispers against her lips with a small grin. His breathless and unsteady voice is almost as arousing as his touch.

He pulls the jumper over her head and throws it aside. It lands on the chair next to his tie.

All tangled up in each other, they begin edging toward the living room. Their kissing is occasionally interrupted by a stumble over parts of the coffee table wreckage and each other's feet. But soon he feels the edge of the couch against his legs and pulls away to look at her, seeking reassurance. Her hands slide under his shirt and over his shoulders. She kisses him and gently starts pushing him down. He sits and she joins him, straddling his thighs. As he leans back, he feels a sudden, sharp jolt of pain in his lower back. His reward for trying to be kind to an old lady with two heavy suitcases just keeps on giving at the least convenient moments. He winces and she notices.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he lies. He knows she knows. "It's nothing," he lies again anyway, and she shifts, eliciting another wince. "It's my back," he confesses at last. He lets his head fall back against the couch and shuts his eyes. He would laugh if it didn't hurt so much. But then the pain passes as quick as it came. He feels her weight shifting again, this time not toward but away from him. He leans forward and reaches out. It's an almost desperate move. She stills under his touch. "You don't…" He pauses, discards the rest of his sentence, then swallows. "It's fine," he assures her. After some hesitation, she carefully settles back on his thighs, and everything goes still. For a while they just look at each other with a mixture of keen interest and some uncertainty. They are new to each other. It's an arousing, daunting, and fascinating newness. Her palms rest flat against his chest – it's rising and falling, pale and burning. She can feel his heart pounding even faster as she slowly, cautiously brings her lips down on his for another long, deep kiss. She slips her tongue under his, teasing and tasting. He strokes her calves, his thumbs drawing lazy arcs on her skin, then she feels the warmth of his hands sliding up her thighs. She shivers under his touch and moans into the kiss. After a while she pulls back a bit, trying to get her hair out of the way but some of it gets caught in one of the bandages covering the cut on her forehead. After a brief fussing she only manages to partially re-open the wound. An exasperated, Spanish-sounding whisper slips off her lips. She seems to switch to Spanish when she's angry and he finds that adorable. "It's not funny, you know," she tells him but his grin is already infecting her voice. "It freaking hurts." He chuckles and she struggles to keep a stern face. He reaches up and pulls her hand away. He carefully coaxes the stray hairs out of the sticky white strip, then gently smooths it back in place for her. As a finishing touch, he lightly kisses her forehead. "Better?"

"Much," she says and leans in but the sound of knocking pulls her lips away from his.

They look at each other, toward the front door, then back at each other. She reluctantly gets to her feet and Eli quickly follows. "Wait," he whispers, looking tense and alarmed.

"Bad guys don't knock, Eli."

"They may think you think that."

She seems to consider that briefly. "I think you're over-thinking this," she says at last, and starts toward the front door.

"Wait!"

There's more knocking. She slows to a halt and turns back, deciding to indulge his paranoia – partly because now it's spreading to her as well. He goes to the kitchen and re-emerges with a frying pan in hand. She gives him an amused look. "Just in case I'm right," he explains. She slowly nods, fighting back a grin, then walks up to the door. He follows. She grabs the knob and glances back at him. Eli raises the pan like a baseball bat, ready to strike whoever is on the other side. "I'm ready." She takes a breath and pulls the door open.

There's a completely innocent-looking woman waiting outside with two bags and a stack of files in her hands.

Eli's the first one to react. He lowers the pan. "Nora."

Then his equally bewildered assistant. "Eli."

There's a long moment of stunned silence at both sides of the doorstep. "Natalie," she introduces herself, completing this impromptu roll-call, and her voice helps Eli find his manners.

"Sorry. This…" He needs to think for a moment. "… is my assistant, Nora," he gestures to their guest with the frying pan, then points it at Natalie. "Nora, this is Natalie… Flores." Nora nods with a look of concern. Natalie self-consciously crosses her arms and smiles, then follows the assistant's gaze – now it's fixed on the frying pan. As subtly as possible, Natalie takes the pan away from Eli, which only marginally improves on the overall look of this situation.

"Is this a bad time?" Nora asks, her attention switching between her boss and the young woman whose name rings a very specific bell.

"No," Eli and Natalie lie in unison, then abrupt silence ensues again. "Would you like to come in?" Natalie asks and the assistant's gaze immediately locks with Eli's. After he firmly mouths "no", Nora looks back at Natalie and politely declines the offer. "I just came to bring you these," she says, referring to the stack of files she's still holding. Eli nods mutely. He's having a hard time easing into this conversation. Nora keeps staring, still trying to decipher and digest what is happening, so Natalie decides to make things a bit easier for everybody by removing herself from this awkward equation.

"Well, I think I'm just gonna… take this back," she says and makes a little wave with the pan. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too," Nora says and Natalie walks back inside. The assistant waits until she disappears, then looks at Eli. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

He cuts her off, his demeanor switching back to what most people around him would call normal. "It's fine." He reaches out his hand, gesturing impatiently to the pile of papers. "You brought everything?"

"Everything you asked," she answers after some hesitation, handing him the files. He ignores her confusion and quickly flips through the printed pages, checking. "Is…" she starts but pauses when Eli looks up. She hesitates again but her concern wins out. "Is there anything I should know?"

Eli raises his eyebrows. "About what?" he asks, a bit irritated, feigning ignorance. But Nora finds it rather difficult to ignore Natalie's bruises, the frying pan and his improperly buttoned shirt. She isn't familiar with this side of her boss at all. For now, however, she wisely decides not to comment. "Is there anything _I_ should know?" Eli asks as he continues leafing through the files.

"Mr. Landau was asking about you." When her boss doesn't react, she adds, "He asked where he could find you."

Eli's head snaps up immediately. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know." She can be very good at feigning ignorance too. She learned from the best.

Eli visibly relaxes. "Good."

"He will keep asking."

"I'll handle him."

She nods and offers him the smaller bag. "I brought your laptop." He takes it from her. "And I thought you might need these," she says somewhat hesitantly, then hands him the second, larger bag, too. This is uncharted territory for employee and employer alike.

He takes the other bag but his eyes remain on her. "What's in this?"

"Toothbrush. Chargers. Clean socks. Things like that."

He stares at her, then nods silently. He looks grateful and a bit baffled. She smiles. "Good night." And with that, she turns to leave.

"Nora."

She glances back. "Yes?"

He purses his lips, turning the reluctant but heartfelt words in his mouth. "Thank you."

For the extra bag.  
>For not asking.<br>For not telling.

He rarely says those words to her but she doesn't let him see her surprise. He can only see the beginnings of another smile. She can tell he's getting uncomfortable now, so she changes the subject. "Tomorrow's meeting-"

"8 o'clock, I know."

"A.M."

"A.M.," he repeats with a small smile and a slight tilt of his head.

She's most definitely not familiar with this side of him but she's already fond of it. She gives him a farewell nod, and as she walks off, Eli turns to get inside. Juggling the files and the bags, he's already drafting an explanation why he is so prepared to stay when he only said yes a few minutes ago.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	14. Better

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

_a/n_: I apologize for the lack of updates, guys. I've lost a hard drive and with it a piece of my soul - plus the original "chapter 14." This is a re-written, sort of "easing-myself-back-into-this-fic" version. I'll try to be quicker with the next one. Thank you all so freaking much for the continued interest, encouragement, support, and patience. You are amazing!

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><p>~ <strong>BETTER<strong> ~

She's been tossing and turning for hours, never quite succeeding in finding a good spot, even though it's a rather large and – on most days – very comfortable bed. She angrily turns to her side and gets further tangled in the sheets. There's a thick stripe of light slicing through the humming darkness of her room. She's left the door slightly ajar and through the crack she can see into living room. And she sees the back of his head. He's sitting on the couch, his posture strained. She hears him swear and cracks a smile. For tonight, his only line of defense seems to consist of paperwork and a frying pan – hardly an effective combination against armed and violent criminals sneaking into apartments –, but she feels safer. Her eyes remain on him. He straightens his back, tilts his head left and right, stretching his neck muscles. Even from behind he looks frustrated – as frustrated as she feels.

He glances up when he sees movement from the corner of his eye and pulls the headphones out of his ear.

"You don't like the quiet, huh?" she asks, amused.

"It is distracting." He runs his tired eyes over her rumpled form. "Can't sleep?" he asks, smile and concern mingling in his voice.

She shakes her head. "No."

He nods. He doesn't ask more. It's her turn. "You?"

"Oh, I slept yesterday," he jokes but he looks worn out too.

She chuckles, then briefly surveys the small mess he's made. There's a beer bottle by the couch – she helped empty it a couple of hours ago. He's surrounded by papers – polling results, reports, financial records, some legal looking documents, half-written speeches and neatly typed ones decorated with his scribbly adjustments. A blue pen lies on the carpet near her feet. "Florrick for Governor," its white letters announce.

She picks it up and sits down next to him. The TV is on – almost on mute – and she stares at it for a while, absently fiddling with the pen. He steals a glance at her. He doesn't really know what to say, so he quickly resumes studying the sheet of paper in his hand - the dots, numbers, charts, and percentages. All neat and ordered. Straightforward. Concrete. Reliable.

Not so long ago she was barely more than strings of letters and numbers on a piece of paper. A porous, brief memory. But now she's here. He could reach out and touch her. He could. He has and he is starved for more but guilt floods his body like an icy torrent, freezing him motionless.

She watches him. Maybe it's just the way the shimmering light of the TV screen hits his profile but the lines on his face seem deeper and darker, his hair more silvery, his face more angular, than she remembers.

He can feel her gaze and turns his head to meet it.

"How are you?" she asks after a long stretch of silence. A laugh escapes him but he quickly chokes it back. She doesn't seem to think it's a ridiculous question. Maybe it isn't. Repeat something often enough and it may just become true, they say. It could just as easily become meaningless. Like how are you's. No one waits for an answer to that anymore. She is now. She of all people. Her gaze is waiting, resting on him. Even the pen stills in her grasp. He glances at it, then at the constellation of smaller cuts and bruises on her forearm. She must have fallen on the coffee table during the struggle. Sound of crunching glass echoes in his ear and the phantom touch of cold panic scrapes along his skin like barbed wire.

"I should be asking you that," he says at last, his voice quiet.

"I asked first." He opens his mouth but she cuts him off. "And don't lie," she warns him with a half-smile, pointing the pen at him.

A quick grin – like a glass shard – graves further lines on his face. But when they vanish, he looks more tired than ever. His lips purse slightly as he regards her. It always takes more time to give an honest answer. It arrives wrapped in a sigh. "Better." It's the truth. She smiles and offers him the pen. He doesn't take it. He is waiting.

"Me too," she says but his eyes remain on her for a few seconds longer. He's trying to make sure.

"Keep it." He nods at the pen. "I've got boxes of them at the office."

She twirls the blue and white piece of plastic in her fingers and her smile widens. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."

He seems lost and vaguely embarrassed. "I um…"

"I'm joking, Eli." He smiles but doesn't look completely reassured. "This," she says and glances at the object in question, "this is the nicest pen anyone has ever given me." A couple of silent seconds tick by and then he bursts out laughing. It's warm and soft, quickening her heart rate. "Thank you," she says, cracking a smile.

"You're very welcome."

His gaze flickers back on the page he was staring at earlier and hers starts to wander again.

He's pulled over the footrest from the corner to use it as a makeshift table for his laptop. She looks at the screen. He's researching… dogs? There's a folder by the laptop. Its cover reads Second Chance Shelter with a paw print in place of the "o". Does he want to adopt a pet? Somehow he doesn't strike her as the type. She looks at him and he answers the question she didn't ask.

"Myra Fiedler's little 'pet project' for me."

"A dog shelter?" She reaches for the folder.

"Well, they take in all kinds of animals but mostly deal with pit bulls." She glances up. "You know... nanny dogs," he adds with a grin.

She smiles at that and starts flipping through the papers. "Well, our old neighbor had one."

His eyebrows go up. "Oh. Was it a nice dog?"

"He bit my aunt."

The eyebrows go down. "You aren't helping," he remarks.

"You don't know my aunt. That poor dog was warding off evil."

He laughs and she looks up. "So," she says, closing the folder, "you're helping save abandoned animals now." He smiles back. "Using your evil powers for good, Mr. Gold?" she teases.

He averts his eyes and stifles his chuckle by biting down his lip. He glances back. "Would that be so hard to believe?"

She tilts her head, studying him for a long moment. "No," she answers simply, with a shadow of a smile. It isn't a naïve "no." It's a challenging "no." She doesn't expect him to be better than the man who once betrayed her.

She dares him instead.

He raises an eyebrow. Maybe she knows him better than he thought.

Her gaze shifts to his hands. They are covered with small bits of cotton. There's a bottle of lemon juice nearby and cotton pads litter the couch around him. Some are intact, others are black-stained and in pieces. He looks at her sheepishly.

"Sorry. I was just…" he starts to explain, then turns his hands palm up. They are still inky.

Wordlessly, she gets to her feet. She grabs the lemon juice, takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom. Her hand is cold. She grabs a piece of cloth from under the sink, soaks it with juice and starts to rub it into his skin. The stains begin to fade a little. She holds his wrist and the fingertip-stroked small arches leave goose bumps in their wake. With the cloth she traces the lines etched into his palm and he feels like his body is coming loose. He lets out a shaky sigh. It feels so unusual to be taken care of like this. With such intimate kindness. It's almost surreal. How can a seemingly mundane act be a cause of so much violent emotion? Terror. Gratitude. Desire.

She peers up. In the small distance between them hesitation once again clashes with craving. Then she hands him the lemon juice bottle. The cool softness of caressing fingertips is replaced by cold, sticky, lifeless plastic. "I guess you can take over from here." It's probably for the best.

He can. He doesn't want to. "Sure," he says and clears his throat. She doesn't move. She doesn't look away. She regards him with a tinge of amusement. "You still can't get over my nightwear?" he asks. He is correct.

She grins. "Well, it is a drastic change." An old t-shirt and sweatpants - not unlike the combination of what she is wearing but on him they present a more jarring sight.

"You thought I slept in a suit?"

"You did last night."

He laughs. "Yeah, well... not on purpose."

They lapse into silence again. She bites her lip but the words slip out anyway. "I wanna kiss you." _And more._

He tilts his head. He wants it, too. And more. "Then kiss me."

She smiles faintly. "No."

"I won't bite." But the promise is followed by a wolfish grin.

She grins right back. "I might."

He arches an eyebrow, approving. She looks away and briefly studies the label on the bottle.

"Let's have lunch tomorrow," he suggests, his voice drawing her eyes up. "You know, a...

"A date?" she helps him out. There. The "D" word is out. It's followed by ringing silence.

He quickly recovers. "Yes. That." He clears his throat. "Something… proper. Normal. Where neither of us storms out or falls asleep or... gets attacked."

She chuckles. "Something low-key then?"

"Yes. If-if that's all right with you."

"I'd love that."

"I could pick you up around one."

"That's when my lunch break starts, so… perfect."

He narrows his eyes and swallows. "You have to go to work?"

"I _want_ to go to work, Eli. I can't lock myself away forever. Besides, what's safer? Me in here alone or at the office surrounded by people?"

His mouth opens and closes. She has a point. He lowers his gaze and nods in silence. "You're right." She resists the kiss but reaches out, smoothing her hand over his cheek. He showered but didn't shave. His stubble feels prickly under her fingertips. He leans into her touch and she traces a dimple with her thumb.

"Good night, Eli," she says quietly, withdrawing her hand.

"Good night, Natalie."

He watches her walk away and shivers in her absence.


	15. Nightmare

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><em>an:_ Yes, I'm back again. Natalie's return (now was that awesome or was that awesome) appears to have cured my writer's block. Thank you so much for every message and comment. You guys continue to be amazing and I can only hope you like this new chapter too. I'll post the next one in a couple of days. It will be a shortie and it will (finally you say? :) mark the fic's transition to the "M" zone.

* * *

><p><strong>- NIGHTMARE -<strong>

The lock clicks.

The knob turns.

The front door opens - slowly and silently.

She is in the bedroom, folding clothes to clear a path on her bed for paperwork and, later on, who knows what else. Her lips form a tiny grin at the thought. She picks up a t-shirt - the one she lent him the other day. It somehow managed to escape the laundry pile and his scent still lingers in the fabric.

A floorboard creeks.

The noise turns her head in the direction of the living room. Standing very still and quiet, she listens and tries to remember if he still has her key.

Then there's another faint creek.

Maybe.

Or maybe it's just her imagination. She backs up towards the nightstand, grabs her phone and checks the time. He's probably still at the hotel. She looks up his number, then dials. If he's here, his cell phone will give him away.

It's ringing but her home stays silent. The call goes to voicemail, so she ends it, throws the phone on the bed, fishes the baseball bat out from under it, then cautiously walks up to the bedroom door.

She listens.

Nothing.

She steps out and looks around.

There's silence but somehow it feels unnatural.

She sees a flash of black from the corner of her eye but it's too late. She is tackled to the ground by a masked stranger. Grappling, they hit the carpet with a loud, flat thud. The fall knocks the air out of her lungs and the bat slips from her grip. It rolls off - out of reach. Her attacker pins her down. She tries to fight back. She struggles but the intruder is bigger, heavier, and stronger.

He stares at her, his eyes glazed over, and in them she sees her own reflection as his dark, suffocating shape presses down on her more and more.

She twists her hip and manages to get her left leg free. She kicks and pushes with all her might, trying to pry him off her. With his balance thrown, his grip loosens and her right arm slips free. She doesn't hesitate and hits him as hard as she possibly can.

Then everything goes black.

She snaps awake, heaving, and automatically glances at the alarm clock but it's glowing numbers aren't there. It was just a dream. This time. _Just a dream_, she keeps repeating in her head. With a trembling hand she wipes sweat off her forehead, then hugs her knees to try and stop her body from shaking.

But then she hears a stifled groan and she tenses instantly. "Natalie?" a voice asks in the dark. A familiar one.

She wills herself to move, reaches over and switches on the small lamp on the nightstand. She looks down and sees Eli sprawled out on the floor by her bed, the alarm clock right next to him. His eyes are watering from the pain and his nose is bleeding. "Are you all right?" he asks, squinting.

An absurd question given that he's the one bleeding.

"Oh god," she says, trying to untangle from the sheets. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." He swallows hard and feels his nose. It's not broken but his fingers come away red and sticky, and he stares at them.

Apparently, not all was just a dream.

She kneels down by his side, quickly grabs a couple of tissues from the nightstand and balls them up. "Hold this to your nose." He obeys and his head tilts back."No, no, don't do that." She grabs his free hand to pull him up. "Come on." With some struggle, she helps him up. He staggers in the stinging, blurry half-light and she quickly sits him down on the edge of the bed. "Lean a bit forward," she instructs him and he does as he's told. He takes a few deep breaths through his mouth and wipes his punch-induced tears with the back of his hand.

He was awaken by her screams and bolted to her bedroom in blind, half-awake worry - only to be stopped by a fist.

Her fist.

Caring is sure proving to be an increasingly hazardous business.

She is crouching in front of him, her hand resting on his knee, fixing him with a firm, raw gaze. "Did you hit your head?" He doesn't react right away. He's probably just reeling from the experience but she can't leave this to chance. "Eli?"

Finally, he glances at her, slightly drowsy, a bit disoriented, and still in pain. Her tiny reflection floats in shiny brown. She has to avert her gaze but quickly forces it back on him. "Did you hit your head?" she repeats her question.

"No," he answers and sees a tinge of relief flash across her face. "Are you okay?" He knows it's a stupid question. But he can't help asking.

"I'm fine." She always is.

She pulls some more tissues from the box and offers them to him. "Here." He quickly switches the red pulpy mass for a crispy white one. "Pinch your nostrils."

"It was my fault," he says in a nasal voice. "I heard you scream and I wanted to wake you."

"Well... you did." She cracks a sad, tired smile. "Thank you," she adds, rubbing his knee, "Sorry I hit you."

"Guess it was long overdue," he remarks, his eyes smiling. She shakes her head, lips twisted by a stifled grin. "But, for the record, I'm glad Mills took away your bat." Despite everything, a small laugh escapes her and he feels beyond proud to be the cause of it.

He slides off the bed to the floor with a muffled groan, his knee joints cracking faintly. The pain in his lower back flares up too.

He sighs. "Oh god, I _am_ old."

She chuckles. "You definitely have a flair for the dramatic," she remarks and settles down by his side. "You are not that old." He looks at her and she holds his gaze. He feels her hand rub his thigh."You're just tired."

"And you punched me," he deadpans.

"And I punched you," she agrees but a smile soon breaks through.

They sit like this for a while, in silence, leaning against the bed.

"Did you dream about him?" he asks. "The um... the-that guy who...?"

"Yes," she says and looks away. He nods but doesn't press her further.

"I keep seeing his eyes," she confesses after a long stretch of silence. She lets out a shaky breath and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her entire body feels heavy with cold, numb exhaustion yet the thought of sleep is unnerving.

His free hand soon finds hers - it's still so cold. She smiles at him. He smiles back, then checks the tissue ball.

"How's the nose?" she asks.

"Better." His thumb gently rubs her knuckles and she entwines her fingers with his. "How's the hand?" he asks.

She chuckles.

"I used to have nosebleeds all the time when I was a kid," he says, dabbing at his nose, then sniffs. "So this is actually kind of nostalgic."

She regards him with a faint smile. "Only you can make nosebleeds sound like a positive experience."

"That's why I get paid the big bucks," he jokes. And she laughs. It's short and sweet - like her. But his smile fades and his jaw sets when his gaze shifts to the cut on her forehead.

"I'm okay, Eli. Really," she says.

He blinks away and stares at the carpet for a while - until his anger and frustration finally boil over. "Well, I'll be okay when you don't wake up screaming in the middle of the night," he says, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion.

Her eyebrows pull together. "Eli-"

"I'll be better than okay after I strangle that son of a bitch with my bare hands. I-"

She suddenly grabs his hand with the tissues in it and guides it back to his nose. "_You_," she says, "are bleeding again."

His eyes flash with mute anger and there's a sullen twist to his lips as he tries to stop the bleeding and get his temper under control. He squeezes out a quiet and strained "sorry".

"It's not that I don't appreciate your late night homicidal rage," she remarks, a note of playfulness creeping into her tone, trying to lighten his mood, "but slow down a bit, okay?" His gaze turns to her and she leans closer. "Because I get to strangle him first," Natalie whispers, then plants a small kiss on his cheek.

He fights it but ends up smiling anyway.

"I'll be right back,' she says, getting up, and before he could say anything, she hurries out of the bedroom.

He's still sitting on the floor when she re-enters her room. "A little late-night snack?" he asks with a crooked smile, nodding at the smallish bag in her hand.

"It's for you," she says, offering the bag of frozen peas to him. "It will keep the swelling down."

He rises to his feet, wincing a bit. "Right," he says, taking the peas with a small grin. "The last thing we need is for this thing to get even bigger," he jokes and lets out a slightly nervous chuckle. She tilts her head, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I-I mean my nose," he says but regrets it immediately. "Obviously," he adds, almost to himself, eyebrows drawn together in a worried manner, looking a bit flustered. All of a sudden he's acutely aware that they are alone in her bedroom. He swallows. "I don't know why I said that." _Idiot._

She bursts out laughing - she can't fight it any longer. He smiles but it is erased by surprise when she closes the distance between them and hugs him.

The laughter suddenly stops and the hug tightens. He waits for the sobs but they never come. He relaxes into her embrace, then pulls her closer, becoming a fuzzy, soft, dark shape of comfort and warmth. After what feels like minutes, she finally exhales. "You are very huggable," she remarks, her voice thick and heavy and muffled by his t-shirt, and he laughs softly. Not many have accused him of that, that's for sure.

She slowly pulls away - not too far away -, then, after some hesitation, cautiously leans back in. Careful to avoid his nose, she plants a quick kiss on his lips.

He studies her for a long, silent moment and she holds his gaze.

"This is crazy, right?" she asks.

Surprise and confusion crease his forehead. "What do you mean?"

Tired and embarrassed, she shakes her head. "It's just..." she trails off, eyes cast down, trying to find the right words. Her fingers curl into a fist, then uncurl. Then she looks back up at him with defeated exhaustion and helpless amusement. "I've never... I don't do this, you know."

His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't know. "You're not the hugging type?" he teases and she is struggling to be serious.

"I'm not the letting-people-I-barely-know-sleep-on-my-couch type."

He swallows and nods. "Well, I'm afraid I'm prone to sleeping on strangers' couches, so..." The joke derails into an uncertain smile. She looks slightly conflicted and it unsettles him. It's time to get serious. "Natalie, if you want me to leave, just tell me and-"

"No," she says suddenly, cutting him off, then her gaze shifts. She reaches for his hand, turns it palm up. Her fingertips slide over the ridges and arches and the faded ink stains.

One way or another, yesterday has marked them both.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly.

She smiles faintly. It is crazy. She wants to keep touching him. She wants more of him. "I..." but then she changes her mind. And sighs. And peers up. "A few hours of sleep would be great."

He stares, then an idea occurs to him. "Wait here," he says, then hurries out and re-appears with his cell phone in hand. "Where's your phone?"

She gives it to him. After some fiddling, lip pursing, and eyebrow furrowing, he gives it back, then taps the screen for her.

Slow, rhythmic ticking ensues.

She peers up, slightly confused.

"It's a metronome," he says. " 40 beats per minute but you can change that if-if you want to. Or," he taps the screen again and the ticking stops, "just turn it off completely if it annoys you."

She smiles. "You have a metronome app on your phone?"

"It's all the rage these days," he jokes but his grin is shy. "I-I find it relaxing. The um... the ticking. It... it makes the quiet less... you know..."

"Quiet?" she asks.

"Yes. More ordered. More... digestible, I guess. I... I don't know. I'm weird," he tries to explain, running a hand through his hair. He's sharing something personal and it's clearly not something that comes naturally. "But maybe it helps you, too." He clears his throat. "Helps you fall asleep."

"Thank you."

"You are very welcome."

She regards him for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek. His eyes narrow playfully. "Yes...?" he asks with a smile in his voice. She pulls his phone from his grasp, puts it on the nightstand with hers, then turns back and steps closer.

"There is something else."

He blinks. "Okay."

She hesitates. "It might sound a bit weird."

"Everything sounds a bit weird after 3 AM."

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><p><em>TBC<em>


	16. Dream

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><strong>teamWilson<strong>: thanks so much. I'm happy to be back too. :) I can't promise anything but I'll try not to disappear again for so long.  
><strong>aprilf00l<strong>: yay indeed! :D Thank you and yes, Natalie's return was even better than I expected. They were beyond adorable.  
><strong>BrendaLee<strong>: thank you so much. I'll do my best, I promise. :)  
><strong>Unzueta5885<strong>: oh yes he is! And the new chap is here. ;)

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><p><strong>- DREAM -<strong>

His lips lazily brush against hers, then trail down along the front of her neck, tasting between jaw and collarbone, as her fingertips explore muscle and skin. His hands slowly sweep along her thighs, then continue up, gently squeezing her buttocks and caressing her lower back. Straddling his hips, she tilts her head back and her eyes drift shut as pleasant chills rake her skin. He transforms into a blurry mess of ragged breathing, musky scent, and strokes of pleasure. Under her. Around her. Inside her. She opens her eyes, sees the freckles move, feels warmth pulsing through her. He grips her hips and shifts a little. She gasps and moans, taking him deeper, her fingers digging into his shoulder. His voice is muffled – a low groan vibrating against flushed, salty-tasting skin. They fall back into rhythm. He nuzzles her neck, kisses her collar bone. Her fingers slide up into the short gray at his nape. It's soft and damp with sweat, and she feels him shiver. She grinds her hip. His jaw clenches. He swallows back a grunt. Her back arches as joints and muscles burn and ache. His hands slide further up, his thumbs brushing against her breasts, his fingers cupping, caressing and teasing. His head dips, his lips trail down, leaving a string of wet, light kisses along her sternum. His mouth closes around the hard nub of her nipple, kissing and sucking on it. She grips and twists his hair tighter, quickening their pace, then pulls his head up, claiming his mouth again. His lips crash against hers in a hungry kiss. She slows to a stop and pushes him down on his back. The springs creak. They are panting and grinning. The sheets rustle. He reaches up and draws her down. Their joined bodies are further glued together by heated kisses, mingled breaths, and caressing hands. She runs a finger across his lower lip – it's wet and swollen and tastes like them. He shifts under her and she gently rocks back and forth, rubbing against him. Her nipples brush his skin and his hips involuntarily jerk upward. His breathing is getting shallower and uneven, his grip on her tightening. She kisses him again, deep and hard, then straightens back up and starts moving with slow, long, measured strokes. Soon her name, tangled in a breathy-whispery groan, lurches from his mouth. She's holding herself back but she is so close now. They both are. Her toes curl, her fingers dig into his skin and he lets out a low growl. Her eyelids feel increasingly heavy. Just a few more strokes. His hands leave her hips and his fingers slide between hers. She grips them tight. Their rhythm is falling apart. Their control is rapidly draining out. His body trembles and tenses. With a final squeeze, she pushes him over the edge and he pulls her with him.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	17. Dicey

DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

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><p><em>an_

**aprilf00l**: thanks! More is coming. :)

**Unzueta5885**: ;) Thank you!

**Guest**: thank you! And yes, it was Natalie's dream. ;)

**Guest#2**: thanks so much. It was my first time writing smut, so I needed a safe "pocket" within the story for a test run, hence the not too original but very handy wet dream scenario. When we get to the real deal, it will be more "personalized", I promise. :)

**Grappling Fancies**: wow, thanks so much. :) It was an experimental chapter and I'm very happy the style worked for you.

**Nkhen**: you have no idea how much fun it was to read your reactions as you worked your way through the story. It was so, so great. And thank you! :D

**KellyD**: hehe, thanks! I wholeheartedly agree: this needs to happen for real. I mean, on-screen real. ;)

**stitchangel88**: I will do my best to keep the chapters coming. Thank you! :)

**Libbi Derington**: thanks heaps! And there's more. ;)

* * *

><p>- <strong>DICEY<strong> -

Natalie's eyes slowly open and the red numbers of the alarm clock blink into view. It's almost 7 a.m., which doesn't fully register with her yet. She stares at the clock, trying to separate what actually happened last night from what didn't, but everything is a swirling, drowsy mess. It was all just a dream, she concludes. Two, actually:

One that pierced and terrified.

One that pleasured and soothed.

Her eyes drift shut, then snap wide open when she hears the bed sheet rustle faintly.

Slowly and cautiously, she turns to take a look.

Eli's lying with his back to her, curled into the cover at the opposite side of the bed, still fast asleep.

And fully clothed.

Her initial panic gradually subsides as she watches him sleep at a respectful distance - a few more inches and he'd end up on the floor. Again. Now she remembers. She remembers it vividly. The bloody nose incident. The metronome. And his expression when she asked him if he would sleep with her - as in _sleep_ sleep with her but she didn't rush to clarify it. His ensuing struggle to form actual words and put them into a coherent sentence was way too amusing to watch. Then she felt a bit guilty for torturing him like that, so she ended up apologizing. He just shook his head with a small, flustered grin. And she clarified her request.

He didn't find it weird or crazy.

He didn't mind at all.

And he didn't push for more.

_Okay_, he said.

He stayed, and she fell asleep to the rhythm of his breathing.

She moves closer and runs a hand along his forearm. "Eli." He stirs but doesn't wake up. "Eli," she whispers into his ear, then, after some hesitation, she plants a lingering kiss on his cheek.

His eyes blink open, then he inhales deeply. His disoriented, sleep-filled gaze soon finds her awake one. She yawns and his mouth stretches into a sweet, lazy smile - one she can't help returning. "Good morning," she says. It is good, indeed. He rolls to his back, then slowly props himself up on his elbows and kisses her lightly on the lips. "Sleep well?" he asks and she grins. His warm, solid presence right next to her starts to mix with the lingering residue of her dream - the way he smelled, tasted and felt. Her hand - no longer cold - slips under his t-shirt. His fingers drift up into her hair and he pulls her closer. His stubbled jaw - like sandpaper - brushes against her neck, tickling, eliciting a giggle.

"You need to shave."

There's a glint in his eyes - playful and dangerous.

"Don't," she warns him but the word is wrapped in a widening smile.

It's too late anyway.

She lets out a shriek of laughter. He pulls her on top of him and buries his face in the curve of her neck, nuzzling and kissing it. His stubble tickles her mercilessly. She keeps laughing, pleading, trying to lean back and away. It doesn't work, so she decides to switch from defense to offense and pushes him down on his back.

Her laughter quiets down as they gaze at each other.

The moment, however, is shattered by a vibrating cell phone. They glance at the nightstand in unison. Eli narrows his eyes at the offending device. "Is that yours or mine?" he asks.

Natalie reluctantly climbs off him. "Mine," she says, reaching for the phone, then answers it. "Hello?" It's followed by silence. It seems to stretch forever. Eyebrows furrowed, Eli sits up. Still listening to whomever is on the other end, Natalie briefly glances back at him. She seems tense. "Yes. … No, of course. Yes. … Okay. I'll be there. Thank you. … All right. Bye." She hangs up but doesn't look at him. She fiddles with the phone, thinking.

Now he's tensing up too. "Is… everything okay?"

"Yes, um… it was Lieutenant Mills," she says, turning back to him. "They are putting together a lineup and he asked me to come down to the station."

Surprised and vaguely worried, Eli raises eyebrows at that. "They caught the guy already?"

"Well, they caught someone. Now they want to see if I recognize his voice."

He regards her. "Can't they use fingerprints or... or DNA?"

"They didn't find his prints here and the samples take days to analyze," Natalie says. "If I identify him, they can hold him until there's solid evidence."

Once again, Eli finds he can't argue with her. "When?" he asks.

"Today."

"Today when?"

A small smile plays at the corner of her lips. "At 9."

He nods, lips thinned and jaw clenched. He can't go. His meeting's at 8. Then he feels a sudden rush of panic at the thought. "What time is it?"

Natalie glances at the clock. "7:10."

He's gonna be late again. "Dammit," he says, trying to scramble to his feet but he's all twisted up in the bed sheet. The more he struggles, the more tangled up he gets. Natalie just watches him for a while with restrained amusement. He yanks at the sheets, pulling free, then slowly turns to look at her. He's all wild hair and conflicting urges.

He runs a hand through the gray locks.

She knows what's bothering him.

"Natalie, I—"

"No. It's okay. Really. I'll be fine," she says but he doesn't move. "Go," she orders him out with a genuine smile, gesturing towards the door.

He hesitates, then nods and walks out. He really should be rushing but when he's out of her sight, he slows to a stop again and looks back at her bedroom door.

"Keep moving, Eli," she yells from inside, making him grin.

* * *

><p>Dressed and ready, she emerges from the bathroom and finds him leaning against the back of the couch. He has his overcoat draped over his forearm and about 30 minutes left.<p>

"You are gonna be late," she remarks, adjusting the strap of her wrist watch.

She is probably right but he doesn't move. He watches - admires - her wordlessly. He looks like a hawk, tensely perched on the edge of a decision already made. His claws are carefully tucked away when she's around but their sharp glint reflects in his eyes.

It softens by her touch and he smiles into her kiss. Her lips leave his but the smile remains.

She gets a bit flustered. "What is it?"

Three words lurch up and rush to the tip of his tongue. He inhales and keeps them in.

He hears a clock tick faintly. His hand reaches up and he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

Then his eyes fix themselves on the cut on her forehead.

People like her... the world breaks them faster. One decent, compassionate bone at a time.

And people like him often assist.

And often out of fear.

Break or be broken.

But she isn't breaking. She is smiling. She keeps remolding herself from betrayals and bruises into something better and wiser - something outside his binary approach to life.

She's a brave owner of mistakes.

A proud wearer of scars.

A graceful outlier.

A builder.

Her soft amusement is creased with concern. "Are you okay?" she asks, her palm resting on his thigh. He has that look on his face again. A peculiar, sad joy.

"Yeah," comes the whisper against her lips and he kisses her. It's a pledge sealed in lipstick._ I won't let you down again._ And her thumb gently wipes its traces from his lower lip. It's the sort of stain he'd wear proudly, but he can't. For now, it must stay hidden. He doesn't want questions. He doesn't want them anywhere near her. They would only taint and chase and judge and twist.

Three words clink against the back of his teeth again - so foolish and persistent - but he swallows them down with a mute gulp. "Are we still up for lunch?" he asks instead.

Her lips curl and her eyes light up. "Of course."

* * *

><p>A taxi is waiting for him, slightly crammed between a white delivery truck and a blue sedan with a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from its rear-view mirror.<p>

Eli climbs in and buckles up.

The cabbie is given the address and some encouragement to drive as fast as possible.

The yellow-black taxi glides through the cold morning rush but they get stuck at a traffic light only two blocks from the hotel. Eli checks his watch. 10 minutes left. He sighs. His teeth abuse his lower lip and his fingers drum on his thigh in a restless rhythm.

A car honks somewhere behind and the loud noise draws his attention.

Just an adventurous pedestrian.

Eli's eyes narrow.

There's also a blue sedan there with red dices swinging behind its windshield.

Eli slowly turns back. This could very well be nothing. He's getting nervous, nonetheless. The light switches and the traffic flows forward again. He chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking. He can already see the Fairmont. He checks his watch. 6 minutes left. He briefly glances back. The sedan is still there.

After some hesitation, he leans forward. "Could you pull over?"

The driver looks at him in the mirror. "If you feel carsick, there are paper bags under the seat."

"Just pull over here," Eli says and the cabbie obeys. "I'll be right back." He climbs out and walks up to a newsstand. He grabs a magazine and, as he pretends to skim through it, he sees the blue sedan pass by. He squints, trying to make out the license plate number but his view is blocked by a red sea of tail lights. Then, after a few more yards, the sedan pulls over too. Eli pays for the magazine, then quickly hops back in the taxi. "Let's go."

The taxi rejoins the busy flow of morning traffic. Eli pulls his phone from his pocket. They pass the sedan parked by the side of the road. He catches sight of part of the plate number and punches it into his cell. The cabbie glances at him in the rear-view mirror. He can tell his passenger is edgy, which, in turn, makes him concerned. "Is everything okay?"

Eli peers up. "Is there a blue sedan behind us?" he asks after some hesitation. He doesn't want to risk taking another look. "With those fuzzy dices?"

The cabbie checks the mirrors. Soon he spots the car in question. "Yes."

Eli gives a tense nod.

"Are you in trouble?"

Eli checks his watch again. "I will be for sure if I'm late," he says, glancing out the window. They are already at the hotel. "You can stop here." He feels around in his pocket. "How much?" he asks, producing a money-clipped stack of cash.

The cabbie checks the meter, then: "Consider it paid."

Confused, Eli raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

The cabbie turns in his seat to look at him. "I picked you up yesterday, too, but you looked very upset when I dropped you off. You paid an extra 40 dollars."

Eli's confusion grows. "Well, that's... that's unusually generous of me."

"Yes, I figured."

Eli frowns.

The cabbie offers a friendly smile. "Have a nice day."

Eli regards the younger man for a moment, unsure how to respond. "Okay." He unbuckles the seat belt, grabs the magazine, and steps out. He stands there for a moment, then turns back and taps on the taxi's window. The cabbie lets it down. "Yes?"

"Do you have a card?" Eli asks.

There is a pause. The cabbie regards him for a long moment. "Sure," he replies and hands him one. "I'm always just a phone call away."

Eli reads the name on the simple white card - Ajit Parmer -, then his attention shifts back to the driver, committing the face and the name to memory. "I will keep that in mind, Mr. Parmer," he says, then turns to walk off.

"Hey, I don't know your name."

Eli looks back. "No, you don't," he confirms with a small smile. "A nice day to you, too," he says, then starts towards the hotel's entrance.

"That blue Crown Vic with those tacky dices," Ajit says, making Eli turn back around. He is not smiling anymore.

"What about it?"

"It was on your tail yesterday, too."

But somebody is already climbing in the taxi. The address is barked out. "What are you waiting for?" the well-dressed man adds, irate and impatient. Ajit nods at Eli in goodbye, then swiftly drives off.

Eli pulls out his phone, enters the lobby, then quickly dials.

He's already at the elevators when he hears the familiar voice. "What is it?"

He pushes the call button. "I missed you, too."

"What is it, Eli?" Kalinda repeats her question.

Eli frowns. He can barely hear her. "Are you on the subway or something?"

"Wait." Kalinda steps out of the conference room where Will and Diane are still engaged in a heated verbal battle with David Lee. She pulls the door closed, muting the noise. "Can we make this quick?"

"Okay," Eli says, stepping in the elevator. "How fast can you get here?"

She glances back at the warring lawyers of Lockhart/Gardner. Will is still shouting, David Lee - waving a fistful of legal documents - is shouting back, and Diane is sitting quietly, arms folded, with a weary expression on her face. Kalinda takes it all in, thinking. Then: "How fast do you need me to get there?"

"So fast, you'll travel back in time and get here by _yesterday_," Eli replies, catching sight of Robert Fiedler as the elevator's doors open with a soft ding. He forces a smile and the older man nods at him in greeting.

Kalinda is silent, considering the request.

Robert turns and starts heading towards Eli. Time's up. "Kalinda...?"

"I'll go pack," she says, then simply hangs up.

_TBC_


End file.
